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THE LIKENESS OF THE 
NIGHT 



^J^^^ 



(lo copies only of this edition were printed 
March, 1900) 



THE LIKENESS OF THE % 

NIGHT 



A MODERN PLAY 

IJV FOUR ACTS 



MRS. W. K. CLIFFORD 



"And where the red was, lo the bloodless white. 

And where truth was, the likeness of a liar. 
And where day was, the likeness of the night ; 
This is the end of every ma?i^s desire." 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 
1900 

All rights reserved 



•^^•xATO COPIES F-(Hcn:iv& . 
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Copyright, 1900 
By the MACMILLAN COMPANY 



SECOND COPY, 
S^ount ©leajsant ©rinterp 

J. Horace McFarland Company 
Harrisburg, Pa. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 

Mildred Wife of Bernard Archerson, 

about 35. Prim, reserved, 
not attractive in the usual 
sense. 

Mary Must be very sweet and pure 

looking. 

Amy Mildred's cousin, pretty, 

about 20. 

Mrs. Carew 28 to 35. A merry rattle. 

Miss Wilson Middle-aged and disagreeable. 

Lady Neville A little pompous. 

Mrs. Saunderson. 

Miss May Hamilton. 

Eliza A servant. 

Bernard Archerson . . A successful barrister, about 

34- 
Ralph Brooke .... Mrs. Carew' s cousin, a young 

Oxford man. 

Mr. Carew Pleasant, between 30 and 40. 

Sir George Neville. 

Mr. Saunderson. 

William Kenny An engineer. 

Servants, people on board ship, steward, 
Lascars, etc., etc. 



(V) 



ACT I 

Mildred's Drawing Room in Onslow 
Gardens. 

Time. — Afternoon. 

ACT II 

Mary's Drawing-room at Hampstead. 

Time. — Morning after Act I. 

ACT III 

Deck of P. and O. S. S. Deccan. 
Time. — Noon. A fortnight later. 

ACT IV. 

A Drawing-room in Hyde Park Gate. 
Time. — Evening. Eighteen months later. 

(vi) 



ACT I 

Scene— A Drawing-room in Onslow Gardens, well 
furnished but rather prim. 

Well down center of stage, a seat shaped like an S, hold- 
ing two persons. Few ornaments about the room. 
Fire in the grate on l. Sofa and door on r. Win- 
dows at back of stage. A tea-table on fire-place 
side ; some flowers and a photograph of Bernard 
on tnantel- shelf, etc. 

Amy {about 20 and pretty^ and Ralph Brooke {about 

24) are discovered when curtain draws up, sitting on 
seat. 

Amy {sitting well back from Ralph). Yes, of course 
it is ; Bernard calls it the so-near {leaning forward) and 
yet-so-far seat {leaning back) . 

Ralph. Excellent. The most severe aunt or the 
worst trained servant in London wouldn't suspect. 

( Tries to kiss her.) 

Amy. Oh, Ralph ! You must be serious. 

Ralph. I never was more so. Well ? 

Amy. Were you really in love with me all the 
summer? 

Ralph. Yes, and all the spring before it, and all the 
autumn after it, and all the every moment since I saw 

A (1) 



2 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act i 

you first. ( Gets up. ) But I only looked in for a moment 
on my way to the Savile. I'm coming back presently to 
see Mrs. Archerson. Is she better? 

Amy. Much better. 

Ralph. She seemed very ill last night. 

Amy. I know. So unlucky ! Just the one evening 
when Bernard was dining at home. 

Ralph. Why is he always out or going away for a 
week alone? Of course, a successful barrister hasn't 
much time, but he has some. 

Amy. He works late at his chambers, or goes to his 
club. Millie says he does not care for the companion- 
ship of women, and when he can get away it rests him 
more to go alone. 

Ralph. They get on all right, don't they ? 

Amy. Why, yes ! And she is devoted to him in her 
quiet way. What did you and he talk about so late 
last night ? 

Ralph. Prospects. And to-day I had a talk with 
Carew. I want to make an income, Butterfly. Coopera- 
tive stores and other hindrances to debt are starving out 
the deserving but impecunious. 

Amy. But Mrs. Carew says you are a genius. 

( Goes to vase of Jiowers. ) 

Ralph. Of course she does. She has a knack of 
saying nice things. What are you doing to those 
flowers ? 

Amy, Trying to make them look a little more care- 
less. Mildred likes things so very prim. 

Ralph. There is always an air of the gentle spinster 
lady about her 

Amy {quickly). You mustn't make fun of her. She 
is my dear cousin, and I love her. 

Ralph. Very well, darling, don't be agitated ; here 
she is. ( Going forward. ) 



ACT I THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 3 

Enter Mildred. She is about jj, prim, rather dowdy, 
reserved, and not attractive in the usual sense. 

Ralph. Are you better, Mrs. Archerson ? I am so 
sorry you have been ill. 

Mildred {shaking hands with Ralph). Yes, thank 
you, much better, and {looking towards Amy and speak- 
ing in a sympathetic voice') very glad. I wanted to tell 
you so last night. 

Ralph. Not altogether shocked at our improvidence ? 

Mildred. Oh, no — money isn't everything. 

Ralph {gaily). Besides, it'll be all right in time. I 
had a long talk with your husband last night. 

Mildred {eagerly). Bernard is so clever 

Ralph. Of course he is, and the best fellow in the 
world as well. {Looks at his watch.) Twenty past four. 

Mildred. Don't go {with a little smile). Won't you 
dine here this evening? 

Ralph. I wish I could, but I'm going to the Carews. 
By the way, they are coming here this afternoon. I must 
go to the Club for a minute, but I'll return in three- 
quarters or an hour if I may. Au revoir. 

Mildred. Au revoir. 

Amy. Make haste back. {Exit Ralph.) {Going 
up to Mildred and holding out her hands. ) I am so 
happy, Millie. 

Mildred {a little formally). I know. I am very 
glad. {Goes to vase.) Someone has touched those 
flowers. They look so dishevelled. 

Amy. I did, Millie. But you never like the artistic 
dodges. 

Mildred. They are so untidy. I like neatness, and 
{smiling) I don't like slang, dear. 

Amy. I beg your pardon {making a face). I put a 
rose by Bernard's portrait. 



4 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act i 

Mildred [goes towards it). I see. {Turns away 
with a sigh.) Dear Bernard. {Opens a little work-bag, 
begins knitting. A pause.) I wish you hadn't per- 
suaded me to have a day, Amy. It's nearly half-past 
four and no one yet except Mr. Brooke, who hardly 
counts under the circumstances. 

Amy. They'll come ! You put 4.30 to 7 on your 
cards. You can't expect a little crowd to stand outside 
as if you were a place of amusement. 

Mildred. Oh, no ! Besides, I'm not amusing. Ber- 
nard said he would come home early ; he's going to an 
official dinner to-night. 

Amy. Don't you sometimes wish he stayed at home 
a little more, or went out with you ? 

Mildred {distantly). He is too busy, and so few 
people amuse him. 

Amy. Particular Bernard ! I don't wonder you fell in 
love with him, Millie. Was he very devoted when you 
were engaged ? 

Mildred {more distantly). I suppose so. People 
don't always show how much they feel ; it would be very 
tiresome if they did. 

Amy. I know! Forgive me. I'm so incoherently 
happy to-day that I have no manners at all. I am slangy 
and put the flowers wrong, and do everything wrong just 
because I am so happy that 

Servant announces Miss Wilson. Clock strikes half- 
past four. Amy makes a little grimace. Miss 
Wilson is middle-aged, pushing and disagreeable. 

Mildred. How do you do, Miss Wilson ? 

{Puts her work away.) 
Miss Wilson. How do you do, dear Mrs. Archer- 
son ? And Miss Amy ? 



ACT I THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 5 

Amy. How do you do, Miss Wilson ? 

Miss Wilson {looking around). Mr. Archerson, of 
course, is not at home? 

Mildred {nervously). Not yet. Won't you sit down ? 

Miss Wilson. Thax\\i you [turning to Mildred). The 
meeting finished at four o'clock, Mrs. Archerson. I 
knew you were longing to hear about it. It was most 
profitable and earnest. Miss Smythe made some excellent 
remarks about the recreations of workhouse women. 

Mildred. I wish I had been there. 

{A Servant brings in tea and arranges it at l. 
of stage. Mildred watches hitn anxiously.) 

Miss Wilson {to Kw^). You never come to any of 
our meetings with Mrs. Archerson ? 

Amy. Oh, I am not old enough yet. 

Miss Wilson. Not old enough? 

Amy {sfniling). I mean serious enough. 

{Goes to tea-table.) 

Miss Wilson {turning to Mildred, i7t a low tone). 
I saw Mr. Archerson the other day at Hampstead. He 
did not observe me {significantly). 

Mildred. At Hampstead ? I don't think he knows 
anyone there. 

Miss Wilson. I am seldom mistaken. 

Servant announces Mrs. Carew {about 30, a merry 
rattle, charming and fashionably dressed) and Miss 
Hamilton {about 28). Mildred goes forward. 

Mrs. Carew. Dear Mrs. Archerson, I knew I might 
bring my friend, May Hamilton, with me. 

Mildred. How do you do ? I am very glad to see 
you, and Miss Hamilton, too. 

{Shakes hands, etc. Miss Wilson waits by the 
fire-place. ) 



6 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT ACT i 

Mrs. Carew {to Amy, squeezing her hand). I know 
all about it, and will come and reproach you properly 
in a moment. What am / to do when Charlie is out ? 
Amy. I shan't make any difference. 

{^Laughing and retreating towards Miss Wilson. ) 
Mrs. Carew. Not make any difference ! ^Laugh- 
ing.) Oh ! (7b Mildred.) It's brilliant of you to start 
a day, Mrs. Archerson. Now, one will know when to 
find you. I shall come every week. 

Miss Wilson {coughing and coming forward). I 
think we have met before, Mrs. Carew. 

Mrs. Carew {coldly). How do you do, Miss Wilson? 
{Turns away and sits down on sofa^ with hack 
to door.) 

Enter Ralph. Mrs.* Carew laughs and nods to him. 

Mrs. Carew. Of course — I knew you would turn up. 

Ralph. Of course you did. 

{Crosses to Amy, who is standing with Miss 
Wilson by the tea-table.) 

Amy. You have not been long? 

Ralph. Didn't go ; turned the horse's head and 
flew back. (Miss Wilson ^o«g",^5.) 

Amy {introducing). Mr. Brooke, Miss Wilson, and 
Miss Hamilton. {They bow.) 

Ralph {aside to Amy). Miss Wilson is rather a 
plain sight. 

Mrs. Carew {who has been sitting on the sofa with 
Mildred). I must go and speak to them. I have not 

seen Ralph since {Goes up to them impulsively.) I 

was so glad to hear the news, you dear innocents. ( To 
Amy.) We shall be related, you know, and immensely 
fond of each other. Charlie was quite excited. He is 
coming in presently, and, if Mr. Archerson is here, 



ACT I THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT ^ 

they'll talk over your prospects like two heavy fathers 
in a play. 

Amy {gratefully). Thank you, dear Mrs. Carew. 
Will you have some tea ? {Offers cup.) 

Mrs. Carew. I am longing for some, and you must 
call me dear Clara ! {Business of tea,) 

Miss Wilson {elaborately to Ralph). I think I 
understand what Mrs. Carew means, Mr. Brooke. You 
must allow me to add my sincere congratulations to 
those 

Ralph. Thank you, thank you ; so kind of you. 

{He turns to Amy and she and he continue talking. 
Miss Hamilton and Miss Wilson turn 
towards one another^ Mrs. Carew and Mil- 
dred come down stage together and stop in 
front of stage. ) 

Mrs. Carew. Amy is your cousin, you see, dear Mrs. 
Archerson, and Ralph is mine. We'll call them our 
mutuals. They will make a delightful couple. I don't 
quite know how they are going to live, but that's a mere 
detail, unless she has money ; he, of course, is shockingly 
poor, but he writes brilliantly. Did you see his article 
in The Sayall Review last month ? 

(Miss Wilson and Miss Hamilton come down 
stage together and sit down on sofa to r.) 

Mildred. No, I never read it. 

Mrs. Carew. It's not a frivolous magazine, you 
know ; it's horribly serious, costs half a crown ; that 
makes them horribly serious. {Sits down. ) We have 
been shopping all day. 

Mildred. It is very tiring. 

Miss Wilson {looking around at her). And very 
unprofitable, Mrs. Carew. 

Mrs. Carew. Perhaps that's why it is so delightful, 
Miss Wilson. ( Turns away. ) 



8 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act i 

Servant announces Mr. and Mrs. Saunderson. They 
are both middle-aged and rather pompous. 

Mrs. S. {shaking hands). How do you do, Mrs. 
Archerson ? I insisted on bringing my husband, because 
this is your first day. 

Mrs. Carew {to Amy). That sounds as if he will 
never do it again, one of the things one would rather 
have left unsaid. 

Saunderson {to Mildred). I don't often pay visits, 
but my wife told me that on this occasion — {to Amy, who 
hands him some tea) — thank you— that on this occasion 
I must come with her. 

Mrs. Carew. And you were delighted to do so ? 

Saunderson. Of course ! 

Mrs. S. How do you do, Mrs. Carew? I didn't 
see you. 

Mrs. Carew. I flourish, but I am worn out with 
buying clothes. ( Turning to Mildred. ) We are going 
to Gibraltar in a fortnight by the P. & O. I wish we 
could make up a larger party. If you and Mr. Archer- 
son would come 

Mildred. Bernard wants me to go to the Riviera. 
I have not been strong lately. 

Mrs. Carew. Much better come with us to Gibraltar 
— sunshine and a majority of the other sex do one so 
much good. 

Servant announces Lady Neville, a fashionable 
lady of any age. 

Lady Neville. Only just for a minute, Mrs. Archer- 
son. {Shaking hands.) I was so sorry to hear that you 
had not been well. 

Mildred. But I am better. 



ACT I THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 9 

Servant announces Mr. Carew. 

Mrs. Carew {to Amy). I know Charlie is delighted 
to come [aside to Ralph), and I hope his manners are 
better than Mr. Saunderson's. 

Mildred. How do you do, Mr. Carew ? It's so kind 
of you to come. 

Carew. Delighted, I assure you. How do you do, 
Miss Amy? (iVi^^^ /f6> Ralph. ) On duty, eh? How do 
you do, Mrs. Saunderson? {To Saunderson.) Capital 
speech of Balfour's in the House last night. Cut the 
ground from under everybody's feet, though it obviously 
bored him to do it. 

Saunderson. It's difficult not to be bored after forty 
—the illusions generally vanish. Luckily, a sense of 
responsibility steps in, and if a thing ought to be done, 
we do it as a matter of duty. 

Mrs. Carew. Your sex should follow the example 
of mine — and never be forty till you are fifty, and then 
only if you can't help it. As for duty — "it's a shocking 
thing to do " — that's a quotation from a classic. 

Carew. Well, dear, you never do it — that's to your 
credit. 

Mrs. Carew. Charlie is so sarcastic. 

Carew. Not at all ; I was paying you a compliment. 
(7b Mildred.) I saw you yesterday, Mrs. Archerson, 
but you wouldn't look at me. Were you taking Archer- 
son to get a little fresh air at Hampstead ? 

Mildred. You saw us, — where? 

Carew. At Finchley Road Station. I was going on, 
but you got out of the train. 

Mildred. What time was it? 

Carew. In the afternoon. I only saw your back, 
but I nodded to Archerson. I don't think he saw 
me. 



10 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT ACT i 

Mildred. I didn't go out all day, and Bernard is 
too busy to go anywhere 

Carew. Oh, but 

Mrs. Carew {placidly looking up from her seat and 
speaking to Mildred). CharUe is always making mis- 
takes. {Signs to her husband.^ 

Carew. I'm very short-sighted. A blind horse can 
see a mile farther than I do. 

Mildred {who seems absent, after a moment's 
pause, slowly). You said you nodded to us? 

Carew. Nodded to the wrong person. 

Mrs. Carew. People who get out of trains are so 
much alike. 

Miss Wilson {aside to Mildred). Are you quite 
well, dear Mrs. Archerson? You look so pale. 

Mildred {with a start, coldly). I am quite well, 
thank you. 

Mrs. Carew. I have been telling Mrs. Archerson, 
Charlie, that she ought to come to Gibraltar with us. 

Carew {to Mildred). An excellent idea. Amy 
ought to come, too. 

Amy. Oh, I couldn't afford it. 

Mrs. Carew [to Amy). The world is full of benevo- 
lent but badly managed fathers. 

Amy. My father is benevolent, but he is only a poor 
parson. 

Mrs. Carew. A delightful thing to be — so pic- 
turesque. {Aside to her husband.) Then there'll be no 
money there. (Servant enters with lights, etc) 

Carew {aside to his wife). I shan't be able to stay 
long. What are you going to do? 

Mildred {who sees that he is goin^). Don't go yet, 
Mr. Carew. You have only just come. 

Mrs. Carew. I fear he must ; but I should like to 
stay a little longer if I may. (Mildred turns her face 



ACT I THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 11 

towards window, as if she were listening to something 
without, Mrs. Carew^^j^ to Ralph, who has sauntered 
up towards her.) Yes, yes, Ralph, I know what you 
want, and I shall be delighted to ask Amy to dinner. 

Mildred {with an air of stippressed excitefne7it). Mr. 
Carew, I heard Bernard's hansom stop. I know the sound 
with which he throws open the doors. Wait and see him. 

Carew. Of course I will. 

Mrs. Carew {to her husband). Charlie, that woman 
has more in her than we think. 

E?iter Bernard Archerson. 

Mildred {her face lightifig up a little). Bernard, 
Mr. Carew was just going. 

Bernard {^to Carew, shaking hands). How are you, 
old man? There's Mrs. Carew. {Shakes hands with 
her.) So glad I am not too late. 

Mrs. CAREW^ So am I. I was just telling your wife 
about a little scheme of ours. 

Bernard. You must tell me about it. I know it is a 
good one. Ah, how do you do. Miss Wilson? {She 
intruded herself on his notice.) Doing good as usual ? 

Miss Wilson. I am quite well, thank you, Mr. 
Archerson. It is a long time since we met. 

Bernard. Much too long. ( To his wife, in a low 
voice). Are you better, Millie? 

Mildred. Much better. 

Miss Wilson {to Miss Hamilton). He is a delight- 
ful man, but so dangerous to us women. 

Bernard {to Mrs. Saunderson). I saw your little 

daughter in the carriage, Mrs. Saunderson ; how pretty 

she is. So I knew I should find you here. Why, Lady 

Neville, you are not going because I have come home ? 

( Shakes hands •; she is preparing to go. ) 



12 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act i 

Lady Neville. Oh, no, Mr. Archerson, but it's get- 
ting late, and I am afraid of this cold wind. Good-bye, 
Mrs. Archerson. 

Mildred. Good-bye. 

(Bernard escorts her to the door and returns. 
Exit Lady Neville. ) 

Bernard {crossing stage to Carew). Carew, you 
are a lucky man. I wish I could find time to go to tea 
with Mrs. Carew. 

Carew {lavghing). No doubt. There's a fatal at- 
traction about another man's wife. 

Mrs. Carew. Charlie, you will shock Mrs. Arch^- 
son. (Bernard turns to speak to Miss Hamilton. ) 

Carew {aside to his wife). Not a bad idea ; she 
might come out on the other side. 

Mrs. Carew. You are an atrocious person. 

Bernard {hears the last words). What has he done? 

Mrs. Carew (/aw^^/«^). Everything. He would be 
so dull if he hadn't. 

Bernard. I wish all women were like you. 

{Goes and talks with the Saundersons.) 

Mrs. Carew. Then I should not be unique. ( Goes 
to Mildred by the fireplace and says to Miss Hamilton 
in passing.) I can't bear that horrid Miss Wilson. Go 
and worry her if you can, May. 

Miss Hamilton {to Miss Wilson). Miss Wilson, I 
know you help Mrs. Archerson in her good works. Do 
tell me a little about your meetings. 

Miss Wilson. I shall be delighted to tell you all 
about them. 

( They go to back of stage. Ralph and Amy come 
forward, he evidently going.) 

Mrs. Carew. I wonder if Amy would come and dine 
with us to-night? Could you do without her, Mrs. 
Archerson ? 



ACT I THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 13 

Mildred. Of course. 

Ralph [to Amy). Get ready early, and I'll call for 
you in a hansom. Good-bye, Mrs. Archerson , and thank 
you for all your kindness. 

Amy. Millie is always an angel. 
Mrs. Carew. Such a pity (Mildred looks up) to be 
one always, dear Mrs. Archerson. It cuts one off from 
so much. 

{^Exit Ralph. Amy slips out of the room after 
him. As she passes Bernard, he says .•) 
Bernard. Still in the seventh heaven ? 
Amy. The seventeenth. {Exit Am.y.) 

Mrs. S. Good-bye, Mrs. Archerson. I have been here 
a long time, and must have tired you out. Good-bye, 
Mr. Archerson. It is quite an event to have seen you. 
Bernard. I didn't deserve such good luck. 
Saunderson. Good-bye, Archerson; we must talk 
it over another time. The seed of many great move- 
ments is planted in an accidental meeting of this sort. 

( Exeunt Mr. and Mrs. Saunderson. There are 
left on the stage Mr. and Mrs. Carew, Mil- 
dred and Bernard, and at the back, talking 
together, Miss Hamilton and Miss Wilson. 
Bernard and Carew stand and then sit 
together atK, of stage, talking. Mrs. Carew 
and Mildred sit down by fireplace on either 
side of tea-table on the l. ) 
Carew. I wanted to see you, Archerson, about this 
engagement in our family. I had a talk with Ralph this 
morning. As far as I can make out, he and Amy haven't 
a penny between them. 

Bernard. Unlucky, isn't it, but he is clever. I read 
an article of his the other day that was downright 
literature. 

Carew. A man can't live by literature. 



14 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act i 

Bernard. No, I suppose not ; rather a shame, 
though. Literature lives by men, and one good turn de- 
serves another. Now a secretaryship would be the sort 
of thing, — give him money and not take all his time. 
Couldn't you manage it, Carew? 

Carew. Well, it's possible. ( They sit down. ) That 
company of which I am a director is going to do great 
things. There's a fortune in that mine. 

Bernard. No doubt of it, old man. There's a for- 
tune in lots of mines. The difficulty is to get it out of 
them. 

Carew. Luck has been rather against us of late. 
For one thing. Miller, our secretary, is such an ass. He 
has a brother who is city editor of The Morning Waker. 
Miller said he'd write us up for a hundred shares. I felt 
bound to refuse them, so I'm blessed if he didn't go 
and write us down — probably opened a bear account the 
day before. We ought to get rid of Miller. 

Bernard. Put in Ralph. 

Carew. Well, I have thought of that lately. The 
worst of it is, he is rather by the way of being your 
clever young Oxford man, and knows nothing about 
the mining world. 

Bernard. He'll write all the more brilliantly about 
it. Nothing makes a man so dull as knowledge of his 
subject. 

Carew. And then he hasn't any money. We expect 
our secretary to take a few hundred shares. 

Bernard. I'll take the qualifying number of shares 
and they shall be considered Amy's. {Half aside.) 
She's Millie's cousin and a charming girl. 

Carew. Well, I have one virtue 

Bernard. It must be rather lonely, old man. 

Carew. That's true. I must look about for another 
to keep it company. It's very good of you, Archerson, 



ACT I THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 15 

'pon my word it is. I was going to say my one virtue 
consisted in not losing time. I should like to show you 
a plan of that mine. {Gets up.) I brought it with me, 
but left it downstairs. 

Bernard. Let's go and look at it in the study. 
{Gets up.) Probably I shan't be any wiser after seeing 
it, but that doesn't matter. 

Carew. Of course not. {To his wife.) Clara, I 
won't wait for you. You'll see me at dinner time. 
Good-bye, Mrs. Archerson. 

{Exeunt Bernard and Carew. Miss Wilson 
and Miss Hamilton come, down stage and sit 
on sofa to r.) 

Mrs. Carew {to Mildred). Let us sit down for five 
minutes more. ( They sit down by fire.) I was worn out 
when I came in, and wishing I had been born a grand- 
mother when distances were short and fashions long- 
lived. Perhaps time will make amends, but it won't 
seem the same thing. Our grandmothers, too, must 
have looked so picturesque, that I wonder our grand- 
papas were not beguiled into constancy for the rest of the 
day by merely seeing them at breakfast time. 

Mildred {nervously). Do you think men are con- 
stant, or that anything a woman does or looks has an 
effect on her husband — say three years after marriage; 
that he notices 

Mrs. Carew. Three years ! Why, it has an effect 
thirty years after, and he always notices. If a husband 
changes it is generally because his wife has grown ill- 
tempered or monotonous. 

Mildred. How is she to avoid being monoto- 
nous? 

Mrs. Carew. She can alter her dress, her moods, 
her manner — her everything, in fact, just as often as she 
changes her mind. In that respect a woman's mind 



16 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT ACT i 

sets an excellent example to follow in her conduct 
towards the other sex. 

Mildred {after a pause). A woman wants her hus- 
band to be in love with her, not merely kind and affec- 
tionate, but 

Mrs. Carew. Of course, and so he is, unless she 
manages him badly. Charlie is as much in love with me 
as the day we married, and I mean him to remain so till 
the day I die, and — and — for a considerable time after- 
wards. 

Mildred. But if he grew careless ? 

Mrs. Carew. I should nip it in the bud, for fear 
of getting my heart broken. 

Mildred. But how? 

Mrs. Carew. I can't tell you— but I should, or run 
away. 

Mildred {looking shocked). Oh, but 

Mrs. Carew. Well, or die. There can't be any- 
thing to shock you in dying, dear Mrs. Archerson. 

Mildred. Bernard is so much taken up with his 
work, he has no time for anything else. 

Mrs. Carew. He is becoming famous. His name is 
always in the papers. How proud you must be of him ! 
{Looks up at mantelpiece.) What lovely roses! Did 
some kind friend send them from Nice ? 

Mildred. No, they came from the florist's. Ber- 
nard ordered some to come in every week. 

Mrs. Carew {arranging her cloak and preparing to 
go). Well, I call that being an attentive husband. 

Miss Wilson {coming forward, after her talk with 
Miss Hamilton). Good-bye, Mrs. Archerson, I fear I 
must go. I wanted a talk with you, but I must come 
some other time and soon. ( Turning to Mrs. Carew. ) 
It has been such a pleasure to meet you again, Mrs. 
Carew. 



ACT I THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 17 

Mrs. Carew. So glad you found it one, Miss 
Wilson. 

Miss Wilson. May I come and see you one day ? 
Your friend, Miss Hamilton, is deeply interested in the 
account I have been giving her of our meetings. 

Mrs. Carew. I am sure she is. So kind of you to 
wish to come. Good-bye. 

{Exit Miss Wilson, looking puzzled.) 

Mrs. Carew [to Mildred). I can't bear that woman 
and I don't mean her to come to my house. Now May 
dear, we must go. Ralph said he would call for Amy. 
I wish you would come and dine, too, Mrs. Archerson. 
I know your husband is going to a function. 

Mildred. Not to-night ; I am not very well. Ber- 
nard is often out, so that 

Mrs. Carew. Wise woman, to let your husband have 
his fling. He is sure to return, like bread cast upon the 
waters, after many days, and settle down to domesticity. 
You'll find it dull, but soothing. 

Mildred. Good-bye 

Miss Hamilton. Good-bye, — so kind of you to let 
me come. 

Mildred {shaking hands). Come again. 

(^.;r^«;2/MRS. Carew a«af Miss Hamilton. Mil- 
dred is left alone on the stage. She stands as 
if dazed, and starts when Bernard, evidently 
in high spirits, enters. ) 

Bernard. Well, Millie, here we are. So glad you're 
better; sit down and tell me all about your visitors. 
Who came first? 

Mildred {sitting down). Miss Wilson. 

Bernard. Confound her ! Who next ? 

Mildred. Mrs. Carew. She thinks I ought to be 
very proud of you, Bernard. 

Bernard. That's all right. So you are, aren't you ? 



18 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT ACT i 

Mildred {nods). She says your name is always in 
the papers. 

Bernard. Evidently looks for it, eh ? 

Mildred. I didn't see it this morning. Were you in 
any case yesterday ? 

Bernard. Yesterday — why — consultations all the 
morning — Library in the afternoon, Bar Committee at 
five 

Mildred. Library in the afternoon? 

Bernard. Let me see. No ! That's a mistake ; in 
the afternoon I had an engagement. {Pause.) I say, 
Millie, now that Amy is engaged she won't want to go 
to the Riviera? {Sits down.) 

Mildred. Couldn't you go, Bernard? 

Bernard. Impossible just now. Mrs. Care w would 
miss my name in the paper. Besides, I should be rather 
on my beam ends — unless we went to Monte Carlo, of 
course. 

Mildred. To Monte Carlo ? The gaming tables are 
there ! 

Bernard {laughing). And I should be certain to try 
my luck, so you had better keep me away for the good 
of my soul. 

Mildred {after a pause). Bernard ! 

Bernard. Madame? 

Mildred. When you married me did you love me 
very much? 

Bernard {startled). What on earth makes you sud- 
denly ask that? 

Mildred. Amy told me to-day that Mary Vivian 
gets a letter from Herbert every morning. 

Bernard. I hope it's a nice one. 

Mildred. You only wrote to me once a week. 

Bernard. Not a letter- writing man. 

Mildred {almost trembling). I know you liked me, 



ACT 1 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 19 

of course, but were you ever in love with me — and do 
you care for me now, Bernard ? Do you ? 

Bernard {anxiously looking at her). What does all 
this mean? 

Mildred. You are so seldom at home — as for going 
out together 

Bernard. Too busy, my dear. 

Mildred. But you never seem to care — you are very 
kind — you let me do as I like, you never find fault, but 
sometimes I wonder if I were very ill whether you 

Bernard. My dear, you will be very, very ill, and 
at once if you go on in this way. You silly little woman 
{laughing. She gets up — he goes to her and puts his arm 
round her waist and kisses her in a kindly, but not lover- 
like manner). What is the matter with you ? I expect 
very few people spoon after eight or nine years of 
marriage. 

Mildred {quickly). It's not that. I only want to 
know that you care. 

Bernard {quickly). We were never very sentimental 
— and I can't be, but I should be a brute if I didn't know 
that you — were a thousand times too good and gentle for 
me. I often think that. You ought to have married 
someone worthy of you. 

Mildred. Oh, no ; you are better than anyone ; it 
is only 

Bernard. That you are not well — but you are the 
best woman on earth, Millie. Give me a little tea. I 
must pull myself together— may have to make a speech 
at this dinner to-night, and to-morrow means Willoughby 
and Cartright. 

Mildred {going to tea-table), Willoughby and Cart- 
right? What is that? 

Bernard. Why, don't you remember? The case 
I'm so anxious about ! Court opens at 10:30 tomorrow 



20 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT ACT i 

morning. A stupid day, Saturday, for opening a big, 
big case, isn't it? But its the first in the paper, and 
you know the old Chief Baron's way— or I do. 

Mildred. Will it goon long? 

Bernard. Can't tell you that, but it may. Anyhow, 
the Court rises at two to-morrow, being Saturday. FU 
tell you what we'll do ; to-morrow night — no, I must 
dine out ; on Monday, I'll get a box and take you and 
Amy to the play 

Mildred. Yes— if you think— it is anything that 

Bernard. Is not improper, eh? I'll try and find 
something that won't hurt us, sure to be a little dull, but 
never mind, we'll have a sf)ree. I believe you'd like one. 

Mildred. I like anything with you. 

Bernard. Oh , do you ? Remember that time I took 
you to the Fran5ais when we were on our honeymoon ? 
Thought you'd think anything there all right. Never 
saw anyone so shocked in my life. 

Mildred. I can't see the good of representing im- 
morality. 

Bernard. Shows us what it is like. 

Mildred. But we should try to contemplate only 
what is good. 

Bernard. My dear child, three-quarters of the 
world is bad — for want of a better word — not because 
it is wicked or wishes to be so — but because it is — merely 
human. If we only contemplated what is good, we 
should have to go about in blinkers and often shut our 
eyes then. It is better to see it all— it helps us to 
understand — and saves us the trouble of finding out for 
ourselves at first hand. 

Mildred {distressed). I can't bear to hear you talk 
in that way. You don't mean it 

Bernard. Of course not— it is only nonsense, but 
nonsense is often — the froth of wisdom. {Pulls out 



ACT I THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 21 

cigarette case.) You must let me smoke after this 
exciting conversation. 

Mildred. Bernard, you were at Finchley Road 
Station yesterday? 

Bernard {with a start). Yes; certainly. What 
then? 

Mildred. Mr. Carew said he saw you there. He 
thought I was with you, but I told him he was mis- 
taken. 

Bernard. Quite right. He is an idiot. 

( Takes up cup^ drinks tea. ) 

Mildred. You have spilt your tea, Bernard. 

Bernard. Too many cigarettes; they make one 
nervous. I shall get those seats for Monday. 

Mildred. Why did you go to Finchley Road ? Do 
you know anyone there ? 

Bernard. Of course. I didn't go for a country 
stroll — no time for that sort of thing, I see many people 
you know nothing about, and I have to go to all sorts 
of places occasionally. . . That reminds me, Bolton 
says there is nothing like a sea voyage for anyone who 
is run down. I was telling him about your faint last 
night. 

Mildred. Do you want to get rid of me? 

Bernard {looks at her). No, of course not. Why 
should I want to get rid of you ? Such an odd thing to 
say. {He pokes the fire. ) 

Mildred. The Carews are going to Gibraltar in a 
fortnight, by the P. and O.; they wanted us to go with 
them. 

Bernard. Why shouldn't j/cz/; go? Mrs. Carew is a 
nice little woman. 

Mildred. I will if you like. You can send me to 
the end of the world if it pleases you . 

{Crosses stage, Bernard consternated.) 



22 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act i 

Bernard {following her. ) What is the matter now ? 
I wish I hadn't to go to this confounded dinner to-night. 

{A pause J) 

Mildred {looking at him and speaking with almost 
grim tenderness). Don't send me away — I couldn't bear 
it — I want to stay here — I want you 

Bernard {evidently touched). All right, dear ; you 
shall do just as you like. You want cheering up. 
Women always run down now and then. 

Efiter Amy, in evening dress. 

Bernard. Why, here's Amy! Going out, Amy? 
You are very smart. 

Amy. To the Carews, with Ralph. 

Bernard {to Mildred). Doesn't she look nice? 

Mildred. Yes ; but that cloak is too thin, dear. 

Amy. It's quite warm enough. The other one is 
ugly. ( To Bernard. ) Ralph said you were so kind to 
him. 

Bernard. Only gave him some good advice. Easi- 
est thing in the world. 

Mildred. I shall be back directly. ( Touches Amy's 
arm.) Wait for me. {£strit.) 

Bernard. Millie isn't very well. I wonder what's 
the matter with her. 

Amy {7tods). I think it— is— because you are out so 
much. 

Bernard {thoughtfully). Oh, no. She has her 
philanthropy, workhouse old women, and that sort of 
thing, you know— the things she likes best. 

Amy. But she loves you. 

Bernard. All the same, I am only one of her duties 
and natural objects of affection. She is happy and sat- 
isfied enough in her own way ; a little excitement would 



ACT I THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 23 

do her good, perhaps. We are going to the play on 
Monday if I can drop on a highly edifying drama — a 
drama is the thing, 3'^ou know — four acts, with the villain 
hand-cuffed and the lovers married at the end. We'll 
invite Ralph, and have a little dinner somewhere first. 
If we win our case to-morrow, I'll give you and Millie a 
diamond crescent each. 

Amy. Oh, Bernard, you are a dear ! 
Bernard. Or a bangle. Millie might think a cres- 
cent showed a sneaking sympathy with the pagan. I 
must go and dress ; it is getting late. {Looks at his 
watch. ) Here she is — with a shawl. 

{As Mildred enters.^ 

Amy. Oh, Millie, why did you 

Bernard {to Mildred, half tenderly). Kind little 
woman. Good-bye, Amy. {Exit Bernard.) 

Mildred. That cloak was too thin. 

{Putting shawl around Atay.) 
Amy. How good you are, but I was really warm, 
enough. There's Ralph's knock ; I'll run down to him. 
{Kisses Mildred.) Good-bye, dear MiUie ; there's 
nothing in the world like being engaged. I don't mind 
if we are not married till we are ninety. {Exit Amy. ) 

(Mildred stands by the fire. Pause. She rings 
the bell. Enter Servant.) 
Mildred. Take away, Warren. And put a lamp oh 
the table near me. 

Servant. Yes, ma'am. 

(Mildred sits down in an easy chair ; Servant 
puts a lamp on little table near her ^ extin- 
guishes all other lights except two candles on 
mantelshelf takes away tea things^ makes the 
room quite straight and prifn again. ) 
Mildred. Oh, Warren ! 
Servant. Yes, ma'am. 



24 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act i 

Mildred. Miss Amy dines out to-night, as weH as 
Mr. Archerson. Tell cook to send me up a little soup at 
eight o'clock. I shall not want anything else. I won't 
go down to the dining-room. 

Servant. Yes, ma'am. (^^^7 Servant. ) 

Mildred {getting up and standing by the fire). I am 
glad Amy has no money. I wish I had been poor. I 
wish I had never— never had a farthing. And yet it 
helped Bernard through all those difficult days. {Takes 
up his photograph, which is in a frame on the man- 
telpiece. ) I wonder what he was thinking of when this 
was taken ; he looks so happy. 

Euter Bernard in evening dress. 

Bernard. Why, what are you doing? 

Mildred {primly). I was looking at your portrait. 

Bernard {laughing). Much better look at me. I 
hope you are going to have a sensible dinner and a nice 
quiet evening. 

Mildred. Oh, yes. 

Bernard {still lingering). Can't think why you 
won't get an exciting novel. 

Mildred. It's such useless reading, Bernard. 

Bernard. Not the old chaps, Scott, you know, and 
Fielding — perhaps Tom Jones wouldn't exactly suit you, 
but you might try Ivanhoe again ; that's proper enough. 

Mildred. I don't think the scenes between Rebecca 
and the Templar are very proper 

Bernard. Well — The Vicar of Wakefield 

Mildred {with a little smile). The story of a 
woman's fall. 

Bernard. Oh, good Lord ! So's the book of 
Genesis, and a man's, too. It isn't the facts that shock 
you ; it's the labels you put on 'em. I believe if you 



ACT I THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 25 

came across a woman who had done all the things you 
think worst for the sake of some one else — a woman 
always does it for some one else's sake, and a man for 
his own — you'd be an angel to her 

Mildred. I don't know 

Bernard. And you'd find an excuse for the man, 
too 

Mildred {looking up at him). I don't know. 

{Shuddering. ) 

Bernard {uneasily). Well— don't be low-spirited. 
Good-by, dear. {Goes towards the door, looks back.) 
I wish you would think over that plan of going to 
Gibraltar with the Carews — do you a world of good. 

{She nods in a dazed manner. Exit Bernard. ) 

Mildred, He wants me out of sight. There is 
something going on — it seems to be behind a drawn 
curtain. But I am beginning to understand — his excuses, 
his absence, and Mr. Carew's mistake. {Sits down.) 
Perhaps, after all, it is only his work. Men often take 
their wives as a matter of course part of their lives. If I 
could be sure that — that there is no one else. I wish I 
could laugh and talk as other women can — as Mrs. 
Carew did this afternoon, but I can't. Something tightens 
round my heart, and makes me dumb. Perhaps he 
thinks me cold. I have always been ashamed to let him 
see. Oh ! To be loved as other women are, and to hear 
his voice just once full of love, of lover's love, not mere 
kindness and affection. {Pause.) If — if— I only had a 
child it would be different — so different — Could — some- 
one have been with him yesterday ? I was afraid to ask 
him that. He would have put me off with a joke. 
{Pause.) Oh, how I hate jokes. Perhaps it was only 
Mr. Carew's mistake. {Shudders.) 

Enter Servant, with ietters on a tray. 



26 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act i 

Servant. Post, ma'am, 

Mildred. Thank you. {Takes letters.) 

{Exit Servant. Mildred sits down by the table 
with the lamp on it, and looks at the addresses. 
There are two or three circulars and one letter. 
She opens the letter and reads aloud. ) 

Mildred {reading). "Mr. and Mrs. Paton Green 
request the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Archerson's 
company to dinner at eight o'clock on Tuesday the 
seventeenth." I wish Bernard would accept; they are 
nice people. {Puts the card on mantelpiece, opens one of 
the circulars and reads.) "A Bazaar will be held at 
Kensington Town Hall." I must try and get some 
things for it. ( Opens another circular and reads. ) ' 'Cot- 
tage homes for destitute children. A pound a month 
will keep a child in board, lodging and clothes." The 
children must be helped. {Pause. Sighs , and takes up 
circular again ^ turns over the leaves , goes on reading.) 
"List of Patrons and Donors: Mrs. Marshall, Talbot 
Road, £\ ; The Rev. Samuel Coxe, The Vicarage, Elm- 
tree, ;^5." Perhaps he had to stint his family to give it. 
**Miss Wilkinson, Grosvenor Square, lo/." Probably 
she is rich, she might have given more. "Mrs. Pearson, 
Albert Villas, Chiswick, £\\ i: o. Mrs. Bernard Archer- 
son, 5 Finchley Road Terrace, Hampstead, ;^3: 3: o." 
Finchley Road ! Hampstead ! {Rises to her feet, stands 
as if petrified.) There are no other Archersons in Lon- 
don. ( Takes up the book again and looks at it. ) Yes, 
yes, Bernard Archerson. [Stands still for a moment.) 
I knew ! I — knew ! 

Curtain. 



ACT II 

Scene — Mary's Drawing-room at Hampstead ; small, 
very pretty and artistic ; a half-painted portrait of 
Bernard Archerson on an easel. On mantel-shelf 
small photograph of him, same as one that Mildred 
has. 

At a writing-table Mary sits with some account books, 
looking through them. She is 27, pretty, charming, 
simple, especially pure-looking ; very simply dressed ; 
wears a wedding ring, but no trinkets. 

Time : Next morning. 

Mary. Six and two and seven, that is— let me see, 
fifteen. I never can make my books right. I wonder 
why we used so much coffee last week. Berry said once 
that civilised men were divided into two classes, — those 
who took their coffee black and those who didn't. I am 
glad I can take mine black. ( Pause. Goes on with her 
books.) Two pounds, — that is too much in a week, even 
strong as Berry likes it. Two and four — that fire is 
going out. {Looks at clock.) Eleven o'clock. He is in 
Court. I wish I could see him in his wig and gown. 
{Gets up, goes to mantelshelf, takes up Bernard's /^t?- 
tograph.) It is just like you ; it has your dearest look 
of all, the look that means "I love you." {Goes, to 

(27) 



28 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act ii 

window. ) It's clearing up. I ought to go out— I must 
tell Eliza— and finish these books. {Rings the bell.) 

Enter Eliza. 

Eliza. Yes, ma'am. 

Mary. Eliza, I forgot to tell cook just now that we'll 
have some Russian toast after the sweet to-night ; but 
she must make the toast at the last moment or it won't 
be crisp, then the little strips of olives and the fish laid 
lightly on the top. Mr. Archerson is very particular 
about the savoury. ( Goes back to her books.) 

Eliza. Yes, ma'am. {Arranges fire and lingers.) 

Mary {looking up). What is it, Eliza? Do you want 
anything? 

Eliza. If you please, ma'am, Jim is downstairs. 

Mary. Yes ? {Puzzled. ) Oh, yes ; Jim is your sweet- 
heart. He should come when your work is done. 

Eliza. Yes, ma'am, he knows that; he's only come 
to ask if you would let me go to see his mother. She is 
ill and it doesn't seem as if she would ever get better. 

Mary. Poor soul ! You shall go and see her this 
afternoon, and I'll make you up a little basket from the 
store cupboard. 

Eliza. Thank you, ma'am. There's no one like 
you for feeling. I don't like to say it, ma'am, but Jim 
says I'm to give notice. 

Mary {startled). To give notice? Why? What 
does he mean ? 

Eliza. He wants to get married. I said you'd be 
angry, but 

Mary {smiling and relieved). To get married ! Oh, 
well, I thought it would come to this, Eliza. 

Eliza. It generally does, ma'am, if they're steady, 
and you are careful who you take up with. 



ACT II THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 29 

Mary. I hope he's earning good wages ? 

Eliza. No ; he's out just now, ma'am ; that's why 
he thought it would be a good chance to get married. 
He'd have more time than if he was in work. 

Mary. But don't you think it would be prudent to 
wait till he has a place? 

Eliza. Yes, ma'am, I dare say it would, but I'd like 
to marry him now while he's nothing ; it'll show him that 
I like him for himself. Besides, I might help to keep 
things going a bit, and he'll not be losing courage and 
perhaps go off and marry some one else for her bit of 
wages saved. 

Mary. You are quite right, Eliza. Fight your bat- 
tle together, and even if you lose it, you will still be 
together. 

Eliza. Yes, ma'am ; that's what I say. 

Mary {evidently amused). Then it's agreed that you 
leave me this day month to marry Jim. We mustn't 
talk any more, Eliza. ( Turns to her books again.') Oh, 
will you bring some logs for the fire? And don't forget 
to tell cook about the toast. 

Eliza. No, ma'am ; and thank you. I wouldn't 
leave you for the world but for marry in' Jim. 

{Exit Eliza.) 

Mary {shuts up her books and looks up after a 
minute). If only we had ventured more! {Looking 
towards portrait.) It was my fault. Berry. I should 
have trusted you and waited. But now, at any rate, you 
are happy. You shall always be happy, my darling, if I 
can make you so. 

{Gets up and looks round; goes to the piano ^ sits 
down. A pause. Begins to play and sing a 
line or two of some simple, homelike song.) 

Enter Eliza, with flowers and note. 



30 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act ii 

Eliza. If you please, ma'am, these have just come. 
Shall I bring some water ? 

Mary. Oh, yes, yes ; please do. How lovely ! 
{Exit Eliza.) Dear old man ! {Kisses the note and 
reads aloud.) "My darling, I picked out each one of 
these flowers for you myself, and send them — to tell you 
that I love you, as I will tell you again to-night when I 
am with you. Dinner at eight. Just going into Court. 
Your Berry." He is always thinking of me, and yet it is 

always when he is most good and dear that (Pause.) 

I'm doing what is right, the biggest right, and that 
which will help him most. (Stops, looks over her shoulder 
and hesitates. ) If only something would not follow me 
so, something that seems to be intreating me to stop — 
to turn back. I don't know what it means, only that it 
is there, though I make myself dead and dumb to it. 
Eleven fifteen — he has been in Court three-quarters of an 
hour. Perhaps he is speaking. 

Enter Eliza, with water for flowers. 

Eliza. Is there anything else you want, ma'am ? 
Mary. No, thank you. (Exit Eliza.) 
Mary (lingering over the flowers). These shall go 
here — and these here, and these by his dear portrait. 
They are lovely, and how cozy the room looks. (Stops 
by the door, looks round. ) I must go (Exit. ) 

Eliza enters with logs, puts them on the flre, stops by 
easel ^ looks at the portrait. 

Eliza. It's wonderful. But 'tisn't only with paint; 
she can do it with just a pencil and a bit of paper. I saw 
some on her writing-table this morning. (Goes to the 
table, takes up some odd bits of drawing paper and looks 



ACT 11 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 31 

at them. ) She'd draw anything from the cat to the post- 
man, and as like as if it was themselves. I wish she'd do 
Jim. My ! But I wouldn't like to ask it. If she did, I'd 
like it coloured. {Goes back to portrait on easel and looks 
at it.) It's very like Master. Might be just himself sitting 
painted there. He's 'andsome ; there's no denying of it. 
I only wonder why it is he goes away so much. It isn't 
like being married, and her so sweet. What I think is 
that they are married on the sly and there's property. 
There's a lot of harm done by property ; more than 
people guesses. ( Goes up to the portrait and looks at it 
again. ) He's got a fine colour in his eye. Depend upon it 
— it's property, and he doesn't dare to come home to live 
reg'lar till it's settled. When it is, most likely he'll take 
her away and they'll be that grand they'll hardly know 
each other. {A ring at the bell is plainly heard. Eliza 
astonished.) Why, that's the front door. Who can it 
be at this time of day ? Somebody to ask if somebody 
lives here as doesn't, I suppose. 

{Exit. Re-enters^ after a minute, followed by 
Mildred, in bonnet and long cloak.) 

Eliza [to Mildred). Only, ma'am, I assure you 
Mrs. Archerson never sees any visitors at all. 

Mildred {looking dazed and strange). I am not a 

visitor ; I have come on business and 

{Sees Bernard's portrait on easel, stops with a 
look of blank dismay.) 

Eliza. Well, ma'am, I'll see. {Follows Mildred's 
eyes and says proudly.) That's master's portrait you're 
looking at. It's beautiful. 

Mildred. Who did it? {Huskily,) 

Eliza. Missis did it. ( Stands proudly silent for a 
moment.) Couldn't you tell me yonr business, ma'am? 

Mildred. No; that is impossible. 

Eliza. What name shall I say? 



32 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act ii 

Mildred {hesitating). There is no name. I will not 
keep her long, but I must see her. 

Eliza {doubtfully). Well, I'll tell her. Perhaps 
you'll sit down, ma'am. {Exit Eliza.) 

Mildred. She cannot dream that I should come,— 
it is such a desperate thing to do. {Looks round the 
rooniy sees Bernard's photograph on mantel-shelf^ 
stands before it and says bitterly. ) The same one that I 
have. This is what the happy look on his face means. 
I cannot stay here — and yet — I must see her. 

{Stands irresolute and in a shrinking manner.) 

Enter Mary, looking young and sweet and innocent. 

Mildred {stares at her in blank surprise for a 
minute y then hi a low voice). I want to see — Mrs. 
Archerson. 

Mary. I am Mrs. Archerson {uneasily), 

Mildred. You — I thought {trying to recover). I 
didn't know 

Mary. You wish to see me? 

Mildred. Yes ; I want to see you on business. 

{A pause.) 

Mary. Will you kindly explain? 

Mildred {nervously pulling out circular). I ought 
to apologise. I believe you take an interest in things 
that help women and children. There is to be a 
bazaar 

Mary {gaily, with a sigh of relief). Oh, yes, indeed 
I do ; a great deal of interest. 

Mildred {bringing out every word with difficulty). 
There is to be a bazaar. {Handing her a paper.) I 
thought you would read the circular 

Mary. Of course I will. {Holds it in her two hands 
and glances at it. ) But I never go to bazaars, or take' 
stalls, or do anything of that sort. 



ACT II THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 33 

Mildred. No ; I did not want that. {Stops with a 
gasp, seeing Mary's hands, and says aside.) She has 

a wedding ring 

Mary {in a happy, business-like tone). But this 
bazaar is to be at Kensington. Why should you come 
to us at Hampstead? We have our own poor women 
and children here. 

Mildred. It doesn't matter where they live if they 
want help. {Seems half dazed.) 

Mary. No ; it doesn't matter where they live if they 
want help. How did you get my address, or know that 
I was interested in charities? 

Mildred. I found it in a list of Cottage Homes for 
Children. 

{Looks at Bernard's portrait on easel; as if in 
a dream advances a step towards it.) 
Mary {still reading circular). Oh, yes ; I gave the 
money, but I did not mean my name to appear. I was 
so vexed when {Stops and watches Mildred ; an ex- 
pression of alarm comes over Mary's face; then, in a 
doubtful voice. ) Is anything the matter ? 

{ Goes forward. ) 
Mildred. Who is that— is it your husband? 

( With bated breath. ) 
Mary {after a pause) . Yes. 

{Alarm, coming into her voice.) 
Mildred. Mr. Bernard Archerson ? 

( They look at each other in silence.) 
Mary. Yes. {Same voice). 

Mildred {speaking with difficulty). It is very like. 
Mary. Do you know him? 

Mildred. I — oh, yes, I have known him for years — 
he does not dream that I am here. 
. Mary. You have known him for years. Do you 
know him — in — in his home ? Do you know 



34 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act n 

Mildred. Yes ; I know him in his home. I know 
them both. {A little cry comes from Mary's lips. ) You 
are no dupe, then ? You knew that he married nearly 
eight years ago ? {Her voice has grown bitter.) 

Mary. Yes ; I knew. But who are you, and why 
have you come here ? You are not his wife ? 

{Breathlessly. ) 

Mildred. I came — because— because this is a matter 
of life and death to her. 

Mary. Did she send you? 

Mildred. I came of my own accord 

Mary. But what are you, her sister, her friend, or 
what ? Tell me your name ? 

Mildred. My name does not matter. I am her 
friend. 

Mary. When did you find this out? Have you 
known it long? 

Mildred. No. 

Mary. Have you come straight from your own 
house or have you seen her since you knew ? 

Mildred. I have come straight from my own house. 

Mary {with a cry of relief). Then she does not 
know yet. You must never tell her. It would break her 
heart. I would rather die, I think, than that she should 
know ! 

Mildred {surprised and bitter). You are very con- 
siderate ; it is most kind. 

Mary {almost fiercely brushing away her tears) . You 
don't understand ; wait — you must let me get calm. You 
are a stranger, it is so difficult. You say you know him 
and her, and know them well ? 

Mildred. Yes ; I know them well— well 

Mary. Then you know that he married her for her 
money ? 

Mildred. For her money? 



ACT II THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 35 

Mary {firmly but gently). Yes— chiefly for her 
money. He did not love her. She is gentle and good, 
and all that, but he does not love her ; he never did. He 
loved me always, always. 

Mildred. Always ? 

Mary. Yes ; before he had even seen her. 

Mildred {staggering) . Before he had even seen her ? 

Mary, Yes. I tell you because you say you are her 
friend. Do you know her better than anyone else ? 

Mildred. Yes, better than anyone else. (Mary 
clasps her hands in despair.) Why did he not marry . 
you if he loved you even before he had seen her? 

Mary. I was poor — it was impossible 

Mildred. Why was it impossible ? 

Mary. Because {Stops and puts her hand to her 

forehead, bewildered. ) Oh, what shall I do ? How can 
I explain my whole life to a stranger? 

Mildred. I am not a stranger to them. 

Mary. And perhaps if I don't make you understand, 
you will go back and break her heart. 

Mildred {as if she had not heard). If you had had 
money would he have married you instead of her ? 

Mary. Yes, yes. We had neither of us a penny. 
He had left Oxford in debt, I was only a drawing mistress 
in a school. We waited and waited ; there were debts — 
he was worried and distracted, but he did not tell me 
everything. I thought he had left off loving me, and 
wanted it broken off — there were all sorts of misunder- 
standings. I thought he had changed altogether. I 
gave up my pupils and went away secretly. I wanted 
never to see him again. It made him miserable ; he told 
me so afterwards— he was desperate and did not care 
what he did. He thought with marriage he might still 

make a career 

Mildred. It was kind to the woman. 



36 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act n 

Mary. But he thought I did not care for him any 
longer, and had vanished from his Hfe forever. She 
loved him and — and — I can't go over it all. Only I want 
you to understand 

Mildred. That is what / wish — to understand 

Mary. Tell me again, are you so very intimate 
with her? 

Mildred. I have told you that — I can't go on repeat- 
ing it. So he married the other woman. Did you see 
each other all the time ? 

Mary {indignantly). Why, no— no — what do you 
take me for, what do you think ? We had parted nearly 
a year before he married. {^Unable to go on. ) 

Mildred. Yes— yes. 

Mary. One day by accident, more than two years 
after his marriage, we met. I had nearly died in the 
three years and more between. It was like heaven to 
see him again, and, though he tried to hide it, I saw that 
he loved me just as he always did. Oh, you cannot 
think what it was to meet — the misery, the joy — and 
both seemed stronger than we ourselves were. We 
struggled against it — Heaven knows we did, but we only 
loved each other more because of the time we had been 
apart. 

{She grows gradually happier as she says all this, 
and Mildred stands staring at her. ) 

Mildred. His wife loved him, too — as much as you. 

Mary. Oh, no ! She loves him in an even, passion- 
less manner — as so many women love their husbands, 
not as I do. He is just my light and life and all the 
world, as I am his. We went on meeting and parting — 
it was maddening. At last {in a low voice) he said we 
must be together — that his wife should never know, 
never suffer. You must not think that he does not see 
every bit of goodness and gentleness in her ; he does ; 



ACT II THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 37 

but it is not love ; it is only affection, which is so 
different, and respect 

Mildred. Respect for her money ! 

Mary. No, no. That was something to him once. 
Now he is well off— it is nothing to him, but he would 
not pain her for all the world.. 

Mildred {hardly able to drag out her words). He is 
only unfaithful to her every moment of his life. 

Mary [impatiently and proudly). He was unfaithful 
to me when he married her. He was mine first ! The 
tragedy of it is that she loves him — tragedy often walks 
abreast with happiness so well disguised that we do not 
even dream that it is there. She does not dream it. She 
is his wife before the world 

Mildred. And the rest does not trouble you. 

{Alm,ost gasping and holding on to her chair.) 

Mary. Not trouble me ! If you could only know 
how I have thought of her! dreamt of her, ached "for 
her — you must not think that I regret, for I do not. 
What is her wrong or what the world would call my 
honour compared with the work my love may help him 
to do, and the happiness it puts into his life — I think 
that some day he will be a great man [looks up with 
the smile of a visionary at Mildred) — that love will help 
him to become one 

Mildred {quickly turning- her head). Is greatness 
nourished on falsehood and vice ? 

Mary {indignantly). It is not vice. 

Mildred {as if she had not heard her). Is happiness 
born of dishonour and deception ? Why should not his 
wife's love help him to greatness? 

Mary. She is different altogether ; she does not even 
care about his work — she is interested in other things — 
she never reaches his soul. 

Mildred. And you do ? 



38 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act ii 

Mary. I love him so— and long for all the best 
things in the world to be his — they shall be if love can 
gain them. {Pause.) 

Mildred. Does he suppose that she will never 
find this out? 

Mary. She never will if we can help it. How can 
she ? I use his name, but that is all. It may be dan- 
gerous, but I could not bear not to do that— for {in a 
whisper) there are — the children. 

Mildred {gazes at her in bewilderment^ then in an 
agonized whisper). That, too ! 

Mary {quickly) . And I go nowhere, know no one ; 
we are seldom seen together; the name is not in the 
directory. It is by some mistake that it was in that list, 
and it will be immediately withdrawn. It is in no 
other place at all. Even this house is taken in another 
name. How is she to know unless you tell her ? {Puts 
out her hand towards Mildred's arm, hut Mildred 
shrinks back.) Oh, I entreat you, be silent. You can- 
not make his heart go from me to her, and I dre?id to 
think what she would suffer if she knew. 

Mildred {with a desperate look at the door). Does it 
never strike you that you are doing the man you think 
you love so much a great injury, as he is doing her one ? 

Mary. No ; I am not. I did him one years ago 
when I hid myself from him, and he did her one when 
he married her. Yet, after all, she bears the name of 
the man she loves — shares his professional triumphs, and 
sees him every day. Is it not better than if her life 
had never, even outwardly, been bound up with his? 

Mildred {forlornly). But she is his wife. 

Mary {sweetly but firmly). No. /am his wife, and the 
woman of his heart. That is my justification. Marriage 
is the joining togehter of two lives that forever become 
one. I am part of his life ; she is a woman outside it. 



ACT II THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 39 

Mildred {cowering and desperate). Outside it — 
outside it {Suddenly.) Are you ever jealous of her ? 

Mary. Jealous ! I have his heart's best love ; why- 
should I be jealous? {Goes up to fireplace^ takes his 
portrait from the shelf y and, as if speakiftg to it, says 
tenderly.) My dear life ! — who loved me always. 

Mildred {dazed again). Did he send you those 
flowers ? 

Mary. Yes ; he sent them an hour ago {kisses them). 
He chose everyone of them himself. 

Mildred. Had you no friends, no relations, no one 
to prevent 

Mary. No one. We came from Australia when I 
was little, my father and I. After his death I lived 
alone, giving drawing lessons. That is my history. 
There is none to whom I need give account of myself, 
if that is what you mean. I live only for him, and 
think — think how close is the tie between us ! Why, if 
he and she went their separate ways to-morrow, none 
save themselves would suffer, nothing outside them 
would be changed. It is different with us 

Mildred. Yes — yes ; she is worse than a woman 
who is dead. 

Mary {with a cry). Oh, don't say it. I would rather 
creep away and die than that she should know, and yet 
nothing — nothing in this wide world can take his love 
from me and make it hers. 

Mildred. It is she who should creep away and die. 

Mary. But she will never know — never — unless 
you tell her. {Puts her hand out as Mildred moves 
towards the door, as if to keep her back.) Promise — 
promise that you never will tell her. 

M\L.T>^^D [indignantly). I cannot ! 

Mary. It would kill her to know, and it would ruin 
him. You wrung it from me ; you forced me to speak. 



40 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act ii 

Oh, promise me you will be silent — think what she 

would suffer — and he, too {Pause.) Oh, promise ! 

Mildred {hesitating). I will be silent on one con- 
dition — that you are, too — that you do not tell him of 
my visit. 

MAry. But I have never had a secret from him in 
my life. I could not bear to have one. 

Mildred [bitterly). It is not so much to bear. 
Mary {still entreatingly) . But nothing can part us — 
nothing in the world. You will do no good by telling 
her. 

Mildred. Nor you {opening the door, motioning 
Mary back into the room) by telling him. You can 
choose. . {Pause.) 

Mary. I must promise, if that is the only price of 
your silence. 

Mildred. It is the only price. 

Mary {putting out her hands, but Mildred shrinks 
frofn them-). Then I promise. 

(Mildred leans against the door as if about to 
fall. Maky goes forward, puts out her hand 
as if to hold her ; Mildred shrinks from, her ?) 
Mildred. Go back ! Go back ! {In stern tones of 
deep anguish. ) You think that what you are doing is 
right. It may be so. To me it seems the deepest sin. 
Which it is, God knows, and He will prove. For all 
people and of all deeds there comes a day of judgment. 
It will come of what you are doing now — a day when all 
will be made plain.- No one escapes, — nothing is over- 
looked. 

( While she speaks Mary cowers and hides her 
face. Mildred's head drops in a woe-stricken 
manner on her chest and she goes noiselessly 
from, the room,. Mary stands still, horror- 
struck, for a m-om.ent, then flies to the door. ) 



ACT II THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 41 

Mary. Come back ! Come back ! She is gone — 
gone. {Returns to the room. A pause.) Who could 
she have been ? She could not have been — No ; she 
could not have borne it. Oh, if I could make some ter- 
rible atonement, could bear some awful agony that would 
rack my soul and buy happiness for her. {Pause.) 
Whatever happens the world will forgive him ; it is only 
hard on the woman. It is so cruel for her. All that she 
said is true — oh, Great God — it is true ! I see it — it is 
true ! I have had everything — his first love, and his best. 
It is worse than if I had killed her. 

( Throws herself on the sofa and hides her face.) 

Enter Eliza with a log of wood for the fire. Sees Mary, 
and goes up to her with consternation. 

Eliza. Are you ill, ma'am? Is anything the matter? 

Mary {starting). No, no. It is nothing. I have a 
headache. I want to be alone. 

Eliza. Jim told me to give his duty to you, ma'am, 
and thank you for your kindness, and we'd like to be 
married on Valentine's Day, if it's all the same to you ? 

Mary. Oh, yes, yes ; it's all the same to me. Go, 
Eliza, go ; I want to be alone. 

Eliza. Yes, ma'am, and I hope you'll soon be bet- 
ter, I do. ( Exit. ) 

Mary {gets up stealthily^ goes to the piano and closes 
it, returning across the room, stops, looking at the door, 
and says in a whisper). She has changed everything. 
She has made me ashamed.' {A pause. Suddenly she 
gives a cry.) There is a knock, — Bernard's knock ! Oh, 
what can bring him here now ? 
-J {Listens, then with a gesture of despair draws 
back. ) 



42 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT ACT ii 

Enter Bernard, excited and pleased. Goes forward as 
if to embrace her. She gives a cry of despair, but 
he does not notice it, and with a gesture of fear she 
draws back. He must be quite like a devoted lover 
through this scene, in contrast to his m,anner to Mil- 
dred. 

Mary. Oh, Bernard ! Why — why have you come ? 

Bernard. Darling, I came to tell you 

Mary. To tell me? Oh, Berry! To tell me 
what? 

Bernard. That it's all over. Don't be frightened. 
You needn't look so frightened, dear. Don't you under- 
stand ? Willoughby & Cartwright is all over — never saw 
such a fizzle out. Wish you had been there. It was 
first-rate. Carter Rooke opened admirably, got in by a 
rather risky point about the salmon-nets or old Cart- 
wright's lawn— precious sharp practice, but the chief 
took it like a bird. They could not make anything of 
our witnesses, broke down and compromised in the 
judge's private room. Why, Mary ! what is the matter ? 
Are you ill, my darling? 

Mary. Oh, no, no. Tell me more about it. Why 
have you come now? 

Bernard. We have won — won our case, sweetheart. 
I thought you would be glad. You . were so excited 
about it. 

Mary. I am excited now, only I am ill. 

Barnard. 111? What is the matter? 

Mary. Nothing, nothing. Tell me what the case 
was about ? 

Barnard. What it was about ! Why, we have gone 
over it so often ^ 

Mary. Oh yes, I remember. Willoughby & Cart- 
wright. What has happened ? 



ACT II THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 43 

Bernard. Well, we opened fire very effectually, 

I thought 

{She staggers as if to fall ; he goes forward as 
if to take her in his arms, but she pushes him 
away and sits down, cowering, on the sofa.) 

Mary. I cannot bear it. I have been thinking about 
— about everything. 

Bernard. About everything ? About what? 

Mary. About our life together. 

Bernard. How strange you women are ! But why 
now? Has anything happened? You were so well and 
happy a day or two ago. 

Mary {desperately, after a pause) . Berry, I can never 
bear to ask questions or to talk about her, but to-day, I 
want to know, where is she ? Is she at home ? Is she 
well? 

Bernard {still bewildered by her manner'). She is 
at home, but she has been ill lately. 

Mary. Is she able to go out ? 

Bernard. No, I think not ; that is, I did not see her 
this morning. She was not well enough to come down. 
Don't let's talk about her. 

(Mary gives a sigh of relief.) 

Mary. Do you think it possible that she can know? 

Bernard. I am certain that she does not know. 

Mary. Nor even guess ? 

Bernard. Why should she even guess ? 

Mary {with a shudder). I feel as if my eyes had been 
opened — as if a great light had been thrown on what we 
are doing. Everything I have should be hers. 

Bernard. Nonsense, sweetheart. ( Takes her hands 
and looks at her. ) You have nothing that could be hers. 
We cannot go over it again, — to do that would be an 
insult to every memory we hold sacred — to all our best 
intentions and greatest resolutions. 



44 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act ii 

Mary. One day we shall shudder to remember — and 
pay the penalty. 

Bernard. No — no — that's impossible, and if there is 
a penalty to pay we will face it unflinchingly. All things 
have their price in one form or another. We should 
not have dared to face the possible price of this if the 
happiness had not been worth it. Life, and death, and 
happiness, are all born with pain — be a philosopher, my 
dear, and see it. 

Mary {/ooks up at him). You have courage — you 
are so strong ; but I am a woman, dear [putting her hand 
down on his shoulder), though a very wicked one, I fear 
(with a weary laugh. A pause. She goes on with a long 
sigh). There are some words— I don't know where I 
heard them ; they came back to me now just as if it 
were God's voice speaking. "All sin is dogged, and 
though that which follows it may lag, it never loses the 
track." Someday it will overtake us [standing up and 
looking at him and speaking alm^ost solem.7tly). Berry ! 
Quite surely it will overtake us. 

Bernard [shudders). All nonsense and excitement, 
my darling; but you are making me feel very creepy. 
Be reasonable, and put your foolish head down here 
again. {Holds her.) You are not a wicked woman, and 
you know it perfectly ; and as for sin, it has all been 
mine. 

Mary. No— no — mine, not yours. 

Bernard. It is mine. I ought never to have mar- 
ried her — that was the sin — if you want to call it sin, 
dear. But you had gone out of my life, and I knew I 
should never love any other woman. I didn't care what 
became of me, and thought I was incapable of feeling 
anything again. But, Mary ! a man must have a home, 
someone — something — to go back to, to hold his life to- 
gether, to give him responsibilities. 



ACT II THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 45 

Mary. I know, I know 

Bernard. It was time that I had them. She cared 
for me, I saw that. She was gentle and good, and I 
knew that her fortune would help me. When a man is 
not in love all these things weigh with him ; they did with 
me, and I did what hundreds of men have done before, 
and will do again— though that is no excuse for me. And 
in the two years and more of marriage in which she and 
I faced each other every morning at breakfast and every 
night at dinner, and sat by the fireside afterwards with 
nothing to say to each other — blankly looking across the 
space between us — ^those two years before we met again, 
MoUie — I had time to find out that when one is not in 
love it is possible to be deadly lonely in the company of 
the best woman on earth, no matter what obligations 
bind you to her, — and if one is not the best man on earth 
it isn't possible to go on bearing it. I would have given 
her anything, done anything for her. But there we 
were, face to face with each other — for this world and the 
next — worse for me than for her, for I knew the hopeless- 
ness and felt the boredom of it in a way that she did not. 
It paralyzed me, deadened me, maddened me by turns, 
but it went on just the sam« day after day, month after 
month. Then we met 

Mary. If we had only had strength to part again, 
but we couldn't — we couldn't 

Bernard. No, darling, we couldn't ; and it didn't 
make our happiness only, — it made me a better man, 
better to her, better for my work, and to any poor beg- 
gars who came my way. As for you, you have given me 
the truest and most unselfish love, you are the woman of 
my heart, whom I once thought I had lost forever. I 
couldn't live without you now, Mollie dear. Besides, 
think what a help you are to my work. Mildred has 
other interests, her poor people, her church-going and 



46 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act ii 

meetings, all manner of things. Think how I coached 
you up in Cartwright & Willoughby, point by point, till 
you knew the brief by heart, didn't you? 

Mary {consoled). Yes, I did, — every bit of it. 

Bernard {excitedly). Of course you did — in reality 
it was you who won the case, for if you hadn't been so 
keen I shouldn't have got it up till I went into Court, 
You ought to have argued it in Court, MoUie, had a big 
fee and full report in the papers, eh ? 

( Trying to be gay.) 

Mary {recoverijig). Yes, yes ; tell me that I help 
you — that I am good for your work, that I make your 
life better and not worse — that I have made you care for 
the highest things, not the lowest 

Bernard. That you have, darling. I'll say it a dozen 
times if you like. 

Mary [gives a sigh of relief, then, with sudden des- 
peration^ looks up and says, in a calm but almost beseech- 
ing voice) . Bernard, promise me that if ever she does 
find out, you will go away from me, that you will never 
see me more— that you will make me — and not her^ 
suffer. 

Bernard. But why should you want to suffer because 
you love me ? 

Mary. There is something clutching at my heart, 
something that makes me say this, almost against my 
will. If she ever knows there will be — must be — bitter 
suffering somewhere. I shall hunger for it. Promise 
that it shall be mine,— that if ever she finds out you 
will never see me more. 

Bernard {surprised and firm). My dear, sweet 
little woman, this is nonsense ; you are ill and excited. 

Mary. Promise me, — you must promise. 

Bernard. But I won't. Parting would do no good. 

Mary. It must and shall be. If a day of judgment 



ACT II THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 47 

comes and we are found guilty, then, as we have taken 
our happiness, so will we take its penalty. Swear by 
everything you love and hold sacred that if she ever 
knows you will never see me more. 

Bernard. Nonsense. People don't swear by things 
nowadays — only act them. 

Mary. You made her a solemn vow the day you 
married her — make me one now and here, in this our 
home. 

Bernard {almost angry). I cannot, and will not. 
You are mad. 

Mary {sinking on her knees and speaking solemnly). 
Then I will ! I swear by all things that are most sacred 
to me — by you, Bernard, and by those lives most dear 
to us both — that her knowledge shall part us forever 
and ever, and if I fail to keep this vow, then may God 
send His most righteous punishment on them and me. 

{With a gasp.) 

Bernard {aghast). Mary, you are mad ! ! 

Mary. No — no — I am not mad. 

Curtain. 



ACT III 

Scene — Deck of a P. & O. Steamer, London 
Docks. 

Gangway from ship to shore, showing people coming 
and going. To the l. luggage being put on board {if 
possible a crane). Lascars in red turbans, sailors 
and people belonging to the ship moving about. To 
the L. a sheltered covering of some sort with a seat. 
General bustle. Ropes, etc. People combing on board. 
In the background warehouses, people moving about on 
the shore. Ralph and Amy come across the gangway 
on board. 

Time : Noon, a fortnight later. 

Amy {looking round). How picturesque it is. I was 
never on board a big ship before. 

Ralph. Highly meritorious. Those fellowg in the 
red turbans look so well. I wish we were starting on a 
voyage round the world together, passage paid, and 
plenty of loose cash in our pockets. 

Amy {still looking about). So do I. It would be 
heavenly. They are evidently not here yet. 

Ralph. Well, it would be a miracle if they were, 
seeing that we set off first in a hansom. Not at all a bad 
drive from Kensington to the London Docks, eh ? 

( They sit down and watch the people on shore. ) 

(48) 



ACT III THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 49 

Amy. I should like to live in a hansom. 

Ralph. That's a good idea; there would be no 
taxes. 

Amy. It would cost so little to furnish. 

Ralph. We might be married in one, the parson 
standing up in front, the cabman looking through the 
little door on top as witness. 

Amy. How absurd you are ! Besides, we don't want 
to talk of marriage yet. We are only just in love — only 
just engaged. 

Ralph. You were going to say only just in love, as if 
you thought we ought to fall out of love before we were 
married. 

Amy. Be quiet, you shameful person ! You are not 
young enough to be cynical. 

Ralph. Now, who told you that? It isn't your 
own? 

Amy. I wish you wouldn't find me out. 

Ralph. Everyone is found out nowadays ; but it 
doesn't matter a bit ; and plagiarism has become a pro- 
fession, I say, the Carews ought to be turning up. I 
suppose Clara travels with a wagon load of Saratoga 
trunks. 

Amy. She has the most lovely things to wear, but 
she is quite as much excited about Mildred. 

Ralph. That is a very odd business, you know. 
Clara Carew says that the day after that tea-party Mrs. 
Archerson suddenly appeared, looking as white as a 
ghost, and declared her fixed intention of going to Gib- 
raltar with them. 

Amy. I know, and she used to say that she couldn't 
bear to leave Bernard. Another strange thing is that on 
one excuse or another she has contrived hardly to see 
him at all lately. 

Ralph. They must have had a quarrel. 



50 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act hi 

Amy. No; they haven't. But she has some secret 
worry. I can't think what it is 

Steward appears. 

Steward. What is the number of your cabin, 
madam ? 

Ralph. We are waiting to see friends off. 
Steward. All right, sir. ( ^^zV Steward. ) 

Ralph {to Amy). There must be some reason for it. 

Two lady passengers come on board, evidently mother 
and daughter. Ralph and Amy draw back. 

Mother {fussy). So much worry and confusion. 
There should be more method. 

Daughter. Everybody comes on board at once ; it 
is a great bore. Just look at that luggage, mother, — it 
will be smashed to bits. 

Mother. I only hope it is not ours ; then I don't 
care. Let us go below at once and see the steward, or 
all the best places will be snatched up. You know how 
selfish people are. ( They pass on.) 

Ralph. Nice woman that ! Kind towards other peo- 
ple, — quite like the human nature one hears of ? 

Amy. One hears of ? 

Ralph. Yes, the human nature one meets is so much 
better than the human nature one hears of. Don't you 
think so? 

Amy. I think people are very nice as a rule, 
except 

Ralph. Me ? 

Amy. Yes, you ! and Miss Wilson, for instance. By 
the way, she said she would come down and see Millie 
off. 



ACT III THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 51 

Ralph. What for? To worry her? 

Amy. I don't know. She came yesterday, and 
wanted to see Millie. I said it was quite impossible — 
Millie was too busy. Then she positively asked if Ber- 
nard meant to see her off to-day, and where the ship 
started from. I told her in the most unsuspecting man- 
ner, and just as she was going out of the door she said, 
"Tell poor Mrs. Archerson" 

Ralph. Why poor? 

Amy. Oh, it's her way. She said '*Tell poor Mrs. 
Archerson I shall be on board the ship to-morrow to 
speak to her before she goes." 

Ralph. Perhaps she wants to give her a tract, or to 
ask for a last subscription. 

Amy. I shouldn't wonder. Milly is so good ; I be- 
lieve she subscribes to everything on earth. 

Ralph. It's a pity we are not a society, then she 
would subscribe to us. 

{Suddenly a street musician in the background on 
shore begins to play '''Home, Sweet Home.'''' 
They start and listen.) 

Amy. Oh, I wish he would go away. If Millie hears 
him she will break down. 

Ralph. It's only cheap pathos. 

Amy. Ah, but cheap things affect us. 

Ralph. That's true ; lots of the keenest memories 
one has are mixed up with cheap pathos. {Someone 
stops the band. ) That's a good thing. Here comes your 
friend, Miss Wilson. 

Miss Wilson comes over the gangway and on board. 

Amy. Let us hide. {They draw back.) 

Miss W. {looking round). I don't see them ; probably 
they have not arrived. I must enquire. 

{A Passenger yo^zf/<?^ her by accident in passing.) 



52 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act iii 

Miss W. Sir, will you have the goodness to be more 
careful ? 

Pass. Oh, certainly. {Aside.) That's a pleasant 
specimen. 

Miss W. {seeing Ralph). Oh, how do you do, Mr. 
Brooke ? 

Ralph. How do you do. Miss Wilson ? Charming 
weather. 

Amy [coldly). How do you do, Miss Wilson? 

Miss W. Has dear Mrs. Archerson come on board 
yet? 

Ralph. I have not seen her. 

Miss W. {looking at them suspiciously). Perhaps she 
is downstairs {walking away from them). I shall go and 
look ; they want to prevent me from meeting her, but 
I am determined to do my duty. {Exit Miss W.) 

Amy. Here comes the Carews. {Goes to the gang- 
way as they cotne on board. ) We have been watching for 
you. 

Mr. C. I thought Clara would never be ready. 
Ralph, thank your stars you are only an engaged man. 

Mrs. C. {to Amy). It was a business getting off. ( To 
Somebody with packages.) Please carry those things 
carefully. {To Amy.) Where is Mrs. Archerson? 

Amy. She hasn't come yet. We came down first in 
a hansom. 

Mrs. C. Of course, poor dear innocents, you wanted 
to come together. Shall we go and look at the cabin 
before the Archersons arrive? It would amuse us. 

Amy. Not now ; for that horrid Miss Wilson, of all 
people, has come to see Mildred off. 

Mrs. C. Miss Wilson ! Charlie, did you hear that ? 
You must say something disagreeable to her. Where 
is she? 

Amy. Downstairs. 



ACT III THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 53 

Mr. C. I believe sea-faring folk say "below." 

Mrs. C. Charlie has never been at sea for more than 
three days in his life. Men are so arrogant. Ah ! 
{Looking towards the shore and at luggage being carried 
on board. ) There are my precious trunks being put on 
board. {To Amy.) I have had a new habit made for 
Gibraltar — tan colour. I shall look like a circus rider, 
but I thought it would tone well with the Cork woods. 

Ralph. Here comes Miss Wilson. I'll keep her 
quiet for a few minutes. 

{Goes toward Miss W. and stands talking to her. 
The Carews and Amy watch him scoffingly. ) 

Mrs. C. {to Amy). He'll only do that sort of thing 
while he is engaged, my dear. Charlie adores me, but 
he wouldn't do it. Men always take advantage of being 
married. 

Mr. C. Of course they do ; they must have some 
compensation. I shall go and inspect my cabin. 

{Exit Mr. C.) 

Miss Wilson and Ralph come towards Mrs. Carew. 

Miss W. How do you do, Mrs. Carew? 

Mrs. C. {coldly). Oh, how do you do. Miss Wilson? 
Don't let me interrupt you. ( To Ralph. ) Go and con- 
tinue your tete-a-t6te with Miss Wilson. I would not 
spoil it for the world. 

■ ( Turns away and watches the shipboard business. ) 

Ralph {sauntering off with Miss W.). I am most in- 
terested. What became of her in the end ? 

Miss W. It is a sad story, Mr. Brooke. Satan over- 
came her, and after a time quite unexpectedly she went 
back to her old life. 

Ralph {solemnly). She probably found it more 
amusing. 



54 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT ACT ill 

Miss W. {looks horrified). Mr, Brooke ! 

Ralph {solemnly). People will be amused, Miss 
Wilson. It is very, very sad ! 

{They wander out of sight. Mrs. Q., perceiving 
that Ralph and Miss W. are gone, turns to 
Amy.) 

Mrs. C. The Archersons are very late. 

Amy. It is such a long way. 

Mrs. C. Is Mrs. Archerson miserable at leaving her 
husband ? 

Amy. I don't know. She has hardly spoken about 
il since she told me she was going. 

Mrs. C. There's something behind it, my dear. You 
say they have had no quarrel. So it isn't that. Now tell 
me again precisely what happened between the tea-party 
and her coming to see me the next afternoon. 

Amy. Nothing happened. She didn't come down 
the next morning till after Bernard had started for his 
case — Willoughby & Cartwright. 

Mrs. C. Did she have any letters? 

Amy. None. I remember that perfectly. 

Mrs. C. Did she see any visitors ? 

Amy. Oh, no. She came down with her bonnet 
on 

Mrs. C. Where did she go ? 

Amy. Only for a walk ; she always goes for one in 
the morning when she is well enough. Ralph came 
for me, and I didn't get back till nearly luncheon time. 
She was sitting by the fire shivering. After lunch she 
went to you, and when she returned she told me to tel^ 
Bernard that she was going to Gibraltar. I don't think 
she saw him again that day, and he dined out. 

Mrs. C. She has found out something. 

Amy. Found out what? 

Mrs. C. I don't know, but she's going away to gain 



ACT III THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 55 

time, and to think it over. I'm certain that's what it 
means. 

Amy. But why shouldn't she speak of it? 

Mrs. C. {gravely). Ah, you don't understand yet. 
Women — and men, too — have often strange joys or 
tragedies at the back of their lives, or hidden away in 
their hearts, and no one guesses. I never try to gain 
their confidence ; it seems to me rather an impertinence. 
Well, I've seen all my precious things put on board and 
the Archersons have not arrived. Let us go and inspect 
the cabin. 

{Exit Mrs. C, with Amy. Shipboard business 
occupies a ininute, and then Mildred and 
Bernard come over the gangway and stand 
looking round. ) 

Bernard. Looks a good size, doesn't it ? Quite like 
a young town, {Looks up at the crane.) They are put- 
ting your luggage on, Millie. You are a wonderful 
woman to travel with so little. Come and sit down, you 
are tired. {She seems half dazed. They go to seat on r. 
and sit down. ) There, you'll be all right directly. It is 
an awful bother getting off, you know. 

Mildred. Oh, yes. 

Bernard. Don't look so unhappy. 

Mildred. I am going away. 

Bernard. For a month, a four days' voyage. 

Mildred. I told you to send me to the end of the 
world. 

Bernard. But I haven't sent you anywhere. You 
have done this yourself — made up your mind about it 
quite firmly all in a moment. 

Mildred. You wanted me to go. 

Bernard. Only to make you strong. I am a careless 
brute, but you mustn't think that I don't notice when 
you look ill. 



56 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT ACT ni 

Mildred. I know you do. {Pause.) 

Bernard. I have taken it into my head that you 
think I have neglected you of late, but you know we 
never had many things to talk about, did we? 

Mildred. No, 

Bernard. Why, here's Miss Wilson with Ralph! I 
wonder what she has turned up for. ( To Ralph, who 
comes forward quickly on seeing them. ) Oh, there you 
are ; I was beginning to think you had all mistaken the 
ship. Where are the Carews ? 

Miss W. Oh, Mrs. Archerson, I have been waiting 
for you. 

Ralph {to Bernard). The Carews are below with 
Amy. 

Miss W. How do you do, Mr. Archerson ? 

Bernard. How do you do. Miss Wilson ? Perhaps 
you'll stay with my wife a moment, while I look up the 
Carews and speak to the Captain. 

Miss W. I shall be truly glad to be of use in any 
way. 

Ralph. Carew is at the other end of the ship. 

Bernard. Good. I'll go to him. He'll be gone a 
month or six weeks, and I want a word or two with him 
before he starts. 

(Miss W. and Mildred are left together.) 

Mildred {coldly). I did not expect to see you, 
Miss Wilson. 

Miss W. {ifnpressively). I made a point of coming. 

Mildred. It was very kind. 

Miss W. I have something to say to you, Mrs. 
Archerson. 

Mildred [wearily). I don't think I can talk about 
the society or meetings just now. 

Miss W. It is not about the society or meetings that 
I have come to talk to you. I want to ask you seriously, 



ACT III THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 57 

my dear friend, if you think it right to go away and leave 
your husband, who is unfortunately handsome and fas- 
cinating, exposed to the wiles that any woman with the 
passing attractions of youth and prettiness can set for 
him? Remember, Mrs. Archerson, that constancy was 
never a man's virtue. 

Mildred. This is not a subject I wish to discuss. 

Miss W. I cannot bear to expose the follies or weak- 
ness of another — but two days ago I discovered — that 
your husband 

Mildred {looking up and speaking with calm distinct- 
ness). You are taking a great liberty, Miss Wilson, in 
speaking to me of my husband or my private affairs. 
Please leave me. 

Miss W. Mrs'. Archerson, I took the trouble to come 
down to the docks (Mildred turns away) on purpose to 
see you— to save you 

Mildred. Please leave me alone — I want you to go 
away. 

Amy {comes towards her). Why — is anything the 
matter ? 

Mildred {to hmx). Where is Bernard? 

(Mrs. Carew and Bernard return. Miss Wil- 
son gets up and looks indignant. ) 

Mrs. C. Is anything the matter, Miss Wilson ? 

Miss W. I have been treated with ingratitude. I 
came down to fulfil an unpleasant duty 

Mrs. C. Unpleasant to others, of . course ; duties 
usually are. You enjoyed it very much, I'm sure. 

Miss W. {putting her handkerchief to her eyes), I 
shall go home. Women behave so cruelly to each other. 

Mrs. C. They do, indeed, sometimes. It amuses 
them, perhaps. 

Mildred. Miss Wilson, are you crying? I am sorry. 
{Holds out her hand.) 



58 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act tii 

Miss W. I accept your apology, Mrs. Archerson, but 
I am truly hurt. 

Mildred. My husband shall take you on shore, 
won't you, Bernard? 

Bernard. Delighted. Come along, Miss Wilson. 
Something appears to be wrong. Very odd, but— you 
women will bully each other now and then, you know. 
{Laughing. 7b Mildred. ) I'll be back in a moment, 
Millie. 

Miss W. [as she goes off on Bernard's arm). I only 
tried to do good. 

Bernard {laughingly, as they go up the gangway). 
Ah! People who try to do good generally make mis- 
takes, — might try doing the other thing next time. 

( They disappear, Mildred watching them out of 
sight. Exit Mrs. Carew. Mildred and 
Amy talk.) 

Amy {to Mildred.) Let us sit down for a minute, 
Millie, dear. We shan't see each other again for a long 
time. ( They go to a seat. ) 

Mildred. No, not for a long time. {Her dazed man- 
ner combing back. ) Amy, if you and Ralph really care for 
each other, don't let money come between, or anything 
separate you. It is dealing out sorrow and perhaps sin, 
too 

Amy. But why do you suddenly say this to me? 
You will be back long before we 

Mildred. I don't know. I may stay abroad much 
longer. It will be warmer than in England. The cold 
is never good for me. Perhaps I shall write and tell 
Bernard so {putting out her hand in a sudden startled 
manner). If I do, you will understand why it is. 

{A woman in black comes on board and passes 
them. Mildred shudders.) 

Amy. Why did you shudder as that woman passed ? 



ACT III THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 59 

Mildred. Her dress was black, and the thought of 
pain frightens me. Here comes Bernard. 

Bernard. That little excitement is over, Millie. 
Miss Wilson is off our hands. 

Amy. I shall go and look for Ralph. {Exit Amy. ) 

Bernard, You'll be off soon. They are putting the 
ropes ready. 

Mildred. Won't you sit down for a little while? I 
have hardly seen you at all lately. 

Bernard. I know, and all this business of going 
away has been too much for you. Never mind ; the 
voyage will set you up. Oh, I say, there's Carew at 
last ; I couldn't find him just now. I must speak to 
him. I'll be back directly. 

{Goes forward to Mr. C, who is seen a little 
distance off.) 

Mildred {to herself). Am I not to have a word 
with him? 

Mrs. C. {passing). I'm not going to stay with you 
now, dear Mrs. Archerson. We shall get plenty of each 
other by and by. Our husbands are having a farewell 
word ; that is why I stop. 

Mildred. I know. {Turns suddenly to her.) It's very 
good of you to take me, Mrs. Carew. I am so glad to go. 

Mrs. C. {watching a husband and wife coming on 
hoard, the wife looking miserable). Evidently that poor 
soul isn't glad to go ; she looks as if she were breaking 
her heart. Probably returning with her husband to 
India — this ship goes on to Bombay, you know — and 
leaving her children behind. The husband doesn't 
seem to care much, does he? 

Mildred. He may be trying to keep up her courage. 

Mrs. C. As your husband is trying to keep up 
yours. {Puts her hand on Mildred's arm. ) 

Mildred. But I want to go. You mustn't think 



60 * THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act hi 

that I am going against my will. I am going because 
I want to be quiet 

Mrs. C. I know, and to be alone. {As Mildred 
/urns away.) No ; I'm not going to ask you what it is. 
We women often want to think things out. The things 
in which men cannot help us, — or that they do not 
understand. 

Mildred. Men ! ( Watching the husband and wife 
who came on board. The woman is sitting almost cower- 
ing with pain, luhile the husband stands with his back to 
her, talking gaily with some acquaintance he has met on 
board.) The pain and sorrow that women suffer men 
do not even dream. {Makes a step towards the woman 
as if longing to console her, then stops. Looks up at Mrs. 
Carew. ) He is going with her ; Bernard stays behind. 
{Hurriedly.) He is obliged to stay because of his work. 

Mrs. C. {as Bernard comes up to them). Yes, I 
know. Here he is. I'll get out of your way. 

{E^:itUKS. C.) 

Bernard. I have been speaking to Carew about 
Ralph. I think there'll be that secretaryship for him, 
though it mayn't come off for a few months. You'd 
like to see them married and happy ever after, wouldn't 
you, Millie? 

Mildred. Yes. 

Bernard {taking her hand. She lets him, half shrink- 
ingly, half gladly). Why, you are quite chilly. Never 
mind ; I have seen the Captain — seems a good sort of 
chap — he says you will be quite warm before you get to 
Gibraltar. 

Mildred {looking at him with hungry eyes) . Yes ? 

Bernard. And once you are there you will bask 
beneath the orange trees and be suffocated with flowers. 
Gibraltar is all big gums and orange trees, and hazy view 
of Africa over the way. Why, Millie, I don't believe 
you even hear me ? 



ACT III THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 61 

Mildred. Yes, I do, — every word. 

Bernard. You have been so odd lately {uneasily). 
I can't make you out. 

Mildred. I want to go away. 

Bernard. Yes, but why did you want to go away so 
suddenly ? 

Mildred. I want to think and think 

Bernard. To think of what? And why do you 
look so unhappy ? I would give a good deal to know 

Mildred. Oh, it's nothing. I am ill, but the change 
will do me good, as you say. Perhaps I shall write and 
ask you to let me stay away longer. I don't know — I 
don't know anything yet. 

Bernard. It might do you good to stay away a bit 
longer — you'll see. You are a lucky little woman to 
get into a decent climate while your husband stays behind 
and slaves. (Mildred looks up quickly as if about to 
speak. Bernard, mismiderstanding , goes on consol- 
ingly.) I shan't slave really. I dare say I shall take 
things pretty easily. 

Mildred. I dare say — quite easily 

Bernard. You are trembling {tenderly). Stay, I'll 
put your cloak round you. Shall we walk up and down 
a bit? {Pulls her hand through his arm, and they get 
up.) You'll soon be in the sunshine ; perhaps you'll get 
too much of it — don't pull your hand away. How 
strange you are ! One minute you cling to me and the 
next you shrink from me. ( They begin to walk up and 
down the ship. ) Tell me what you are thinking about. 
Is anything worrying you ? {Looks at her keenly. ) 

Mildred {passionately). I can think of nothing in 
the world now, except that I have never been away from 
home before without you. Even if you have not cared to 
go you have gone ; but to-morrow will find us miles and 
miles apart. 



62 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act hi 

Bernard. But this trip is nothing. You'll be back 
in no time. By the way, Millie, when you are at Gib. I 
wish you'd go and ask after a waiter at the hotel on the 
New Mole Parade — he was a messenger boy in our cham- 
bers, looked as if he were going to die, so I sent him out 
eight or nine months ago. He got so much better he 
thought he'd take a situation and stay there for a time. 

Mildred. Yes, Bernard, it was like you to do that. 

Bernard {with a laugh). Oh, he was an awfully 
good little chap, and he has a poor old mother who 
scrubs out my den, wears a black shawl, and drinks a 
little whisky now and then. Don't forget, his name is 
Ben Stammer. I believe Gib. will do you a world of 
good, too, Millie. 

Mildred {looking at him with a little grateful smile). 
I'll go and see the boy. You are always kind, Bernard ; 
no one ought to think you anything else. 

Bernard. Well, no one does ; so mind you come 
back strong and well. Do you hear? 

Mildred. If I die {suddenly) you must marry again 
soon and be very happy. 

Bernard. Nonsense ! You are not going to die. 
You musn't be morbid. 

Mildred {after a pause). Bernard, I wish I had been 
different to you, — better and more companionable. Oh, 
I would give anything to have been different. 

{He stops and looks at her in a troubled manner. ) 

Bernard. No one in the world could have been bet- 
ter. You are the gentlest woman alive, and I have not 
been fit to tie your shoe-strings. 

Mildred. You have ! You have ! I understand 
you better than you think! {Pause.) Bernard, do you 
remember once, a few months after we were married, 
you brought me home a little bunch of snowdrops. I 
ran to meet you in the hall— did you love me then ? 



ACT III THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 63 

Bernard. Yes, dear, of course I did. What next ? 

Mildred. I was very shy and didn't thank you for 
them, but I have reproached myself all these years since. 

Bernard. You foolish child. I had forgotten all 
about them — thanks or no thanks — long ago. 

Mildred {almost excited). And I can't talk and say 
things as other women do. I never could, but I love you, 
Bernard, and if I never come back I want you to remem- 
ber that your happiness is the thing I have longed for 
most. 

Bernard. Why do you talk of never coming back ? 

Mildred. No one knows what may happen on board 
ship {tryifig to be cheerful). We may be wrecked. 

Bernard. Cast on a desert island and rescued after 
long years — that sort of thing. 

Mildred. And if I should die of starvation on the 
island, you know 

Bernard. Nonsense ! You won't die 

Mildred. But if I do, and you find you don't want — 
our money — I mean the money that was mine before we 
married, could you let Ralph and Amy have it ? Then 
they could marry, and not wait and perhaps become 
estranged. 

Bernard {looks at her keenly ^ then^ as if satisfied, 
says cheerfully). You had better make a will and leave 
it to them. Come, let's go and see what it's like by the 
wheel house. 

Mildred {gets up) . I should not think of leaving it 
to anybody but you — but I should like you to give it to 
them, if it is possible. ( They pass out of sight and come 
back again.) {Ship business.) 

Mildred. I shall go there when it is warm enough. 
I shall have my face towards home 

Bernard. I'll think of you with your face turned 
homewards, and look out towards you in my thoughts. 



64 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act hi 

Mildred. There will be a long white line of foam 
stretching and stretching between us. 

Bernard {as if with sudden foreboding of ill ). Mil- 
lie, don't go ! Don't go ! 

Mildred {startled). I must. I must. 

Bernard. It's not too late. Come back. There is 
something that tells me you mustn't go. I won't let 
you ! ( General bustle on board. ) 

Mildred. I want to go. I cannot go back. 

Bernard. What do you mean? 

Mildred. I am ill. I have been stunned. 

( The husband and wife Mildred had watched 
come on board and pass them. Mildred and 
Bernard draw back and stop speaking while 
they pass. ) 

Woman {sadly) . It is of the children I am thinking ; 
for their sake 

Man. I know it would be cruel that they should 
suffer. ( They pass on. ) 

Bernard. Now tell me what you mean ? 

Mildred {who has heard them with an upturned face) . 
I have only been ill — that is all. 

Bernard. You said you were stunned. 

Mildred. Only with pain. I want to go away — to 
be quiet and get well. 

Bernard {recovering). Yes ; perhaps it is better. 
( They walk a few steps in silence. ) Millie, I think we 
made some mistakes in our life together. We were too 
silent, and in the beginning we never tried to understand 
each other. In some ways we have been half strangers. 
{More bustle on board.) 

Mildred. Yes ; half strangers. 

Bernard {looking round, not seeming to have heard 
her last words). They are getting ready for moving. I 
say, dear, you must be careful how you sit on that seat 



ACT III THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 65 

we looked at just now, unless it's very calm. If the ship 
gave a lurch you would go over before you knew where 
you were or a soul had an inkling of it in time to pick 
you up. 

Mildred [looks up and answers slowly). Yes ; if the 
ship gave a lurch I might go over. 

[Ship's officer calls met.) 
Ship's Officer. All on shore, please ; all on shore ! 
Mildred. It has come. 

[Clinging to Bernard's arm. General bustle. 
Everybody appears. ) 
Amy [corning up with the others). We must go, 
Millie, dear. Good-bye. [Kisses her.) 

Ralph [holding her hand). Good-bye, Cousin 
Millie. 

Mildred [to Ralph and Amy). Good-bye. A happy 
time, a happy life to you, dears. 

Bernard [u7ieasily). Millie thinks she's going to be 
wrecked. 

Mildred. No, I don't. 

Mrs. C. She shall have a perfect time, I promise her. 
S. O. All on shore, please ; all on shore ! 
Amy. Oh, that horrid man is going to play again. 
( General leave-taking. ) 
Ralph. More cheap pathos. [To Mrs. C.) He 
was playing "Home, Sweet Home" when we came on 
board. 

Bernard. God bless you, Millie, and good-bye. I'll 
post you a Hne to Gibraltar the moment I get home. 
It'll go overland and get there before you. 

[He takes her in his arms and kisses her; musi- 
cian on shore plays ''Auld Lang Syne.''' Mil- 
dred lets him. go reluctantly ; Bernard, Amy, 
Ralph, etc., go over the gangway.) 
Mildred. Bernard [As if to herself .) 



66 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act hi 

Bernard {looking back). I'll give them half a crown 
to stop that. 

( General crowding to side of ship ; gangway goes 
up ; people wave handkerchiefs, etc. ) 
Mildred {stretching out her arms). Good-bye ! 
Good-bye ! 

Mrs. C. {standing behind Mildred). Don't grieve, 
dear Mrs. Archerson ; it's only for such a little while, 
and we'll take care of you. 

(Mildred does not seem to hear; she supports 
herself against the bulwark and watches the 
shore. ) 
Mildred. He kissed me — as if he loved me. Good- 
bye. Good-bye. (Bernard turns and waves his hand. ) 

Curtain. » 



ACT IV 

Scene— A Drawing-room in Hyde Park Gate, 
charmingly furnished. 

At the back^ facing stage, a conservatory or curtained 
doorway, leading apparently to another room. To l. 
of stage there is a fireplace, beside it a writing table, 
with chairs. It should be rather a studious looking 
room, with bookshelves, etc. The painted portrait of 
Bernard seen on easel in second act hangs in one 
corner, Lam-ps and lighted candles, etc. When the 
curtain draws up the stage is empty. 

Time: Sixteen months later. 

A sound of voices outside and then from door on r. 
enter Mrs. Carew, Mrs. Saunderson, Lady 
Neville, Amy and Mary [now Mrs. Archerson), 
all in evening dress. 

Mrs. C. [to Mary). Your husband looks so well, 
Mrs. Archerson. 

Mary. I am glad you think so. Do sit here. Lady 
Neville ; you will be out of the draught. 

Mrs. C. [sitting down by Lady Neville). I always 
like the half-hour before the men come up ; we can talk 
of our clothes and our children and abuse our dearest 
friends. 

(67) 



68 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act iv 

Amy. Dear Clara, you don' t mean that ? 

Mrs. C. Of course not, but things one does mean 
are so tiresome. Never be in earnest, dear. 

Lady N. Never in earnest, Mrs. Carew ? 

Mrs. C. Never ; think how tiresome a man in earnest 
is — a woman is even worse; she never knows when to 
leave off. ( Goes to look at something back of stage. ) 

Mary {crossing stage). Lady Neville, do let me put 
this cushion behind you. {Follows Mrs. Carew.) 

Lady N. Thank you so much. ( To Mrs. Saunder- 
SON.) This is a charming house. Mr. Archerson took 
it just before his marriage, I believe. I daresay {lower- 
ing her voice) he didn't care to take his new wife to the 
old one. 

Mrs. S. Probably they have both painful memories. 
She was a widow with two children. 

Lady N. I know. She is very young, and must have 
married again very quickly, too ; men never have much 
feeling, but I should have thought 

Mrs. S. I wonder who she was. Did you hear? 

Lady N. No ; and I didn't see the marriage in the 
paper. 

(Mary comes down stage with Mrs. Carew and 
Amy.) 

Mrs. C. {talking). And what a delightful room this 
is, Mrs. Archerson ! It looks like a home, and so unlike 
some of the rooms one sees nowadays, — mere certificates 
that their owners are aware of the current fashion in 
decoration and have written a cheque to meet the 
emergency. 

Mary. Bernard had a writing table put there for him- ' 
self, and the other day we moved up some of the books. 
He works here in the evening. 

Mrs. C. I feel sure you are great companions. 
{Sighs. To Amy, who is standing by her,) Tell me 



ACT IV THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 69 

about your wedding, dear. {Looking round. ) A wed- 
ding is a subject about which all women agree to be 
amiable, unless it is the wedding of a man they want 
themselves. {To the others.^ This child has been en- 
gaged to my cousin, Ralph Brooke, for nearly eighteen 
months. He was penniless, but now he is well off, and 
so is she ; that explains the situation. 

Amy. There is so little to tell. It is to take place 
quite quietly 

Mrs. C. Quietly ! Then Charlie won't give me a 
new frock 

Amy. On Thursday three weeks, at my father's church 
in the country. 

Mrs. S. There is nothing so delightful as a country 
wedding. 

Mrs. Q,. {to Mary, half hesitating). Your marriage 
was a very quiet one, was it not, Mrs. Archerson ? 

Mary {looking straight back and speaking gravely). 
Yes, it was very quiet. 

Mrs. S. Was that your wish ? 

Mary. We both wished it. {After a moment' s pause. ^ 
It was only a year after his wife's death, and there must 
always be a little sadness in a second marriage. 

Amy. No one knew about it, not even I, till a month 
ago, then Bernard fetched me and made me stay a day 
or two. 

Mrs. C. {going up to the portrait in the corner'). Did 
you paint this portrait of him, Mrs. Archerson ? I know 
you are an artist. 

Mary. Yes. 

Mrs. S. Was it done lately? 

Mary. No. {After a moment' s hesitation,) It was 
done before our marriage. 

{They all go up and look at it.) 

Lady N. It's exceedingly good. 



7« THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act iv 

Amy. And so like him — dear Bernard. 

Mrs. S. Excellent— really excellent. 

Mrs. C. It's very handsome, and so is he. 

Lady N. {to Mary). Have you painted any portraits, 
Mrs. Archerson ? 

Mary. I have done one of Kvix^j lately. 

Mrs. S. I saw it and thought it most remarkable — 
for an amateur. You were doing it when I called. 

Mrs. C. Amy showed it to me the other day. 

Lady N. {looking round). But where is it? 

Mary {looking toward doorway at back of stage.) It 
is still in the studio 

Lady N. Couldn't we go and look at it? I don't 
suppose our husbands will be up for another five 
minutes. 

Mary {hesitating). If you really care to see it. 

( They vanish through the doorway. Mrs. Carew 
turns quickly to Mrs. Saunderson. ) 

Mrs. C. Do you remember where we met last? 

Mrs. S. At poor Mildred Archerson's — but you were 
with her on board the P. & O. 

Mrs. C. {with a shudder). Yes, yes — that night will 
haunt me as long as I live. I believe I loved that 
woman. 

Amy. She was the dearest thing in the world. 

Mrs. S. How did it happen? It was really an acci- 
dent, I suppose? 

Mrs. C. I can only guess how it happened, but it was 
an accident, I am certain of that. Her husband was 
distracted when I first saw him, fearing she had been in 
low spirits and — well, you know how desperate women 
get 

Mrs. S. {confidentially). You don't think that she 
felt herself neglected ? He used to be out a great 
deal 



ACT IV THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 71 

Mrs. C. So are heaps of men. And Mildred Archer- 
son, with all her virtues, wasn't. quite the woman for him. 
A clever man wants sympathy and companionship ; and 
if he doesn't get them at home, why he gets them some- 
where else. 

Mrs. S. True. Men are learning to value intellect in 
women at last 

Mrs. C. They don't want too much intellect. They 
want love and to be in love ; nothing is any good with- 
out love — nothing in the world, especially marriage. 

Mrs. S. You were always romantic, Mrs. Carew. 
But do tell us about poor Mrs. Archerson. Did she 
talk to you much? 

Mrs. C. Oh, no ! She was always on deck, and she 
spoke so little that somehow I grew half afraid of her ; I 
felt as if she stood on another level — a higher one than I 
should ever reach. 

Amy. I know. I think Bernard felt that, too — she 
was a sort of saint to him. 

Mrs. C. Yes, a saint — but he is a mortal man. She — 
{nodding towards the door through which Mary had 
vanished) is a mortal woman to love — men only rever- 
ence saints. ' ( With a sigh. ) 

Mrs. S. {spellbound). And how did the end come, 
Mrs. Carew? 

Mrs. C. The evening before we got to Gibraltar she 
sat most of the day on a little seat behind the wheel- 
house. She told me that her husband had warned her 
to be careful of it, for if the ship gave a lurch 

Mrs. S. {nodding her head). Of course. 

Mrs. C, In the afternoon I made her come down for 
a little while — and — she kissed me. Amy ! the touch of 
her face went through me. You are right ; she was a 
saint — {aside) just that ! {Goes on.) She went back to 
the seat again and sat staring at the distance behind us — 



72 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act iv 

Charlie fetched a shawl and wrapped it round her. The 
twilight came, and the dinner bell rang, but she refused 
to come down. {Shuddering. ) We were so merry that 
night — she must have heard the sound of laughter and 
the chinking of glasses through the open hatchways. 
{Pause.) When I went to look for her she had gone, 
but no suspicion crossed my mind till later. Then, in 
the darkness, the search began— at first in a leisurely 
manner, then it grew eager — and more eager — a scared 
and breathless search — I shall never forget it to my 
dying hour. When at last we saw that it was hopeless, 
we gathered in the saloon and prayed for her soul. 
{Shudders.) When the lights were put out — and the 
cabins closed— it seemed as if we had shut her out to 
the wind and the cruel sea, {A pause.) 

Mrs. S. {with a sigh). What is your theory about it? 

Mrs. C. {with a sigh). Oh ! She was the sort of 
woman of whom an unlucky chance is apt to take advan- 
tage, and I think that, as she sat there dreaming on 
through the twilight, the ship did give a lurch, and she 
went over, and perhaps was not so very sorry in that 
last moment ; for she had a way of taking life too seri- 
ously, and the people who do that get very tired. 

Mrs. S. {rather pompously). But life is a most 
serious matter. 

Mrs. C. {as if she had not heard) . It was an unlucky 
voyage altogether. The second stewardess — a delicate- 
looking woman — Mildred liked her and talked to her a 
good deal because she had come from some place she 
knew — was so ill early the next morning that the passen- 
gers feared it might lead to quarantine. However, 
they managed to carry her on shore in the afternoon, and 
luckily she had a husband at Gibraltar— she had been 
looking forward to seeing him, poor soul. I went to 
enquire for her two days later, and she was dead. Alto- 



ACT IV THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 73 

gether we were so unhappy, Charlie and I, that we came 
home by the next boat, 

(Mary comes through the studio door with Lady 
Neville, stops and hesitates. ) 

Mrs. C. [seeing her). Let us talk of cheerful things. 

Mary {coming forward). Were you talking of 
gloomy ones ? 

Mrs. S. The world is a gloomy place. Happiness is 
generally a thing we remember or hope for, but seldom 
realize that we possess. 

Mrs. C. / have realized it— and often thanked God 
for it. It is the most precious thing and the rarest that 
we can give others. I often wish we realized that, too. 

Mary. But what is the matter? This is our first 
party — the first that Bernard and I have given. Don't 
only talk of happiness, but look happy, and be happy as 
a good omen. {Looks round.) 

Mrs. C. We will. I am delighted to have come — 
Mr. Archerson is such an old friend of mine, — but here 
they are 

Enter Mr. Carew, Mr. Saunderson, Sir George 
Neville, Ralph and Bernard Archerson. A 
general m-ovement. 

Mrs. C. {to her husband). Have you been discussing 
the affairs of the universe ? 

Mr. C. Of several universes. 

Mr. S. We had a tremendous argument. 

Mary. What was it about? 

Mr. S. The difference between right and wrong — 
how it came about. 

Mr. C. {to Mary). I should like to have heard your 
view, Mrs. Archerson. 

Mary f/6>MR. S.). What did Bernard say? 



n THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act iv 

Mr. S. That if an action did no one any harm, it was 
not wrong. And that some things, wrong on the face of 
them, were in reality quite right. 

Bernard. So they are. The law sometimes thinks 
otherwise, but that doesn't alter my position. I didn't 
make the laws. If I had I should have made them dif- 
ferently. 

Mr. S. And I maintain that those things are right 
that experience has found to be best for mankind, and 
that the law has set its seal of approval upon. 

Mary {eagerly). But it can't reach all questions nor 
all feelings. 

Mr. S. There are written and unwritten laws, Mrs. 
Archerson, about everything on earth — we all know 
them — and if they are broken, sooner or later they 
avenge themselves. 

Mary. My father used to say it, too. 

{Her face growing grave and anxious.) 

Bernard. Why, Saunderson, we shall have you 
writing an article on morals. 

Mr. S. Ah ! The pubUc loves morality— when it is 
in print. 

Bernard. And the reverse — when it is in French. 

Mr. Carew. Archerson, I didn't think you were so 
cynical. 

Mrs. S. And so witty. 

Bernard. Cynical and witty ! Not I ! Cynicism 
always seems to me to bear the same relation to wit that 
lemon juice does to wine. Pleasant occasionally ; but I 
• can't live down to it myself; I merely say what I think. 
Sometimes it is what other people think ; but that's not 
my fault. 

Mr. Carew {to his wife, as Mary passes them, so that 
the others do not hear). It's an odd thing, Clara, but 
I've seen Archerson's new wife somewhere before 
I can't think where. 



ACT IV THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 75 

Mrs. C. Oh, but one says that of so many faces in 
London. ( Turning to Mary. ) My husband thinks he 
has met you somewhere before, Mrs. Archerson. 

Mary. Perhaps ; but I don't remember. 

Mrs. S. Did you Hve in London before your 
marriage ? 

Mary [gently). No, not in London — but quite near. 
( Goes over to Mr. Saunderson to talk.) 

Mr. C. {to his wife, aside). I know ! She is the 
woman I saw with him once at Finchley Road. I didn't 
see her face ; it is the figure and general carriage that I 
recognise. 

Mrs. C. Really ! {In a low and kindly voice.) We 
won't say so, Charlie. Perhaps they've been fond of 
each other for years— or long ago,— and couldn't help it ; 
one never knows. 

Mr. C. Of course /shan't say a word, — a man never 
does. Archerson's a good fellow and she's an awfully 
pretty woman, there's no doubt about that. ( To Amy. ) 
Well, Amy, this is your last appearance, I hear. 

Mrs. C. {to Ralph, who comes down stage with 
Amy ) . I am so glad you two innocents are going to be 
married at last. I can't think why you didn't do it a 
year ago. 

Ralph. Pecuniary circumstances over which we had 
no control kept us apart. 

Amy. And then Ralph wouldn't have me because I 
had money. 

Mrs. C. You are the most bewildering children. 
(7<7 Ralph. ) Charlie would have given you that secre- 
taryship long ago, but he couldn't get the salary. Still 
you knew it was coming, so that when Fortune was kind 
to one of you, you might have made it do for both ; only 
you were so high-toned {laughing). I never like high- 
toned people myself. 



76 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT ACT iv 

Ralph. Dear Clara, I am horribly low 

Enter Servant. Goes to Mrs. Saunderson as if to 
announce carriage. 

Mrs. C. {continuing to Amy). And I suppose we 
shan't meet again after to-night. 

Amy. I go home by an early train in the morning. 

Mrs. C. You'll see me on Thursday three weeks. 

Mrs. S. Good-night, Mrs. Archerson ; such a charm- 
ing evening. 

Mr. S. Good-night, Mrs. Archerson. Good-night, 
Archerson. {Exeunt the Saundersons.) 

Mrs. C. We must be going, too, or the precious 
horses will catch cold and Charlie will scold me all the 
way home. 

Mr. C. {laughing). This is libellous. Archerson 
shall have a brief 

Mrs. C. Don't listen to him, Mr. Archerson. Good- 
night {to Mary.) Good-bye again, dear Amy. 

{Exeunt the Carews.) 

Lady N. I fear it is very late. May we have a hansom? 

Bernard. Of course. 

Enter Servant. 

Bernard. A hansom for Lady Neville. 

Sir G. Good-night, Mrs. Archerson. I congratulate 
you on your husband's portrait. I wish my wife could 
do that sort of thing. {Shakes hands with Bernard.) 

Lady N. Men are never satisfied with their own 
wives, but you musn't believe all he says, Mrs. Archer- 
son. Good-night, Mr. Archerson. {Shakes hands, etc.)' 

Bernard. Good-night. 

{Exeunt the Nevilles. Only Ralph and Amy 
remain beside the Archersons. ) 



ACT IV THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 77 

Ralph. I must be going, too ; it is getting late. 

Amy. I'll go down with you, Ralph. There is a 
book in the study I want to give you. 

Bernard. I am quite sure there is ; pray go down 
with him. 

Amy. Wretch ! {Laughing.^ 

(Ralph shakes hands, etc. Exeunt Ralph and 
Amy. Mary and Bernard are now left 
alone. ) 

Bernard. Sweetheart, you look sad. What is the 
matter ? ( Looking at her fondly. ) Did you like your 
flowers? I rushed to Dickson's on purpose for them. 

Mary. They are lovely. And I like wearing this, do 
you remember? {^Touching a diamond ornament at her 
throat. ) You gave it to me the first day we came here — 
sold it to me for a kiss. 

Bernard. It was not worth it. 

Mary. And this is the frock we bought together in 
Paris on {shyly) — on our honeymoon. Isn't it sweet? 
( Retreats a step or two and stands before him,. ) 

Bernard {am,used and speaking solem,nly). Very, 
and you look sweet in it. {Passionately.) Mary! I 
love you ! I love you, my own, and what happy years 
we'll have together {but half doubt comes into his tone.) 
Why, here's Amy. {Chajffingly.) Quarrelled with him, 
or has he gone ? ( This, to Amy. ) 

Amy. Neither, sir. But we think we might write a 
few notes. {Turning to Mary.) Thanks for wedding 
presents, you know ; there's no paper in the study. 
Could we have a little ? 

Mary. I'll go and find you some. I wanted to speak 
to Ralph. 

{Exit Mary. Amy lingers behind with Bernard.) 

Amy. Perhaps you won't be down when I start in the 
morning. You are such a sluggard, you old dear. I 



78 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT ACT iv 

want to thank you again for all your goodness — you have 
made us very rich. 

Bernard [gravely). It was Mildred's doing. Never 
let us mention it again ; it is all so painful. 

Amy. I know. I have thought of her so mudi lately. 
Bernard. It is strange, but she has not been out of 
my thoughts to-day. Do you remember Miss Wilson .? 
Ske wrote this morning to my chambers. She is in dis- 
tress, and reminded me that she had known Millie. 

Amy. She was horrid— I hope you didn't send her 
anything— or not much. 

Bernard. Yes, but she was up a tree, I suppose, 
poor old cat ; so I sent her a fiver for Millie's sake,— she 
would have done it, you know. Now go, my cousin, 
and do your letter-writing. 

Amy. Good-night, dear Bernard, and good-bye. 
Bernard. Good-bye, dear. I shall see you on 
your wedding-day. 

{Kisses her. Exit Amy. Bernard sits down 
to the writing-table, gives a long sigh, and 
begins to turn over his papers. ) 
Bernard. Now perhaps I shall get a quiet half hour. 
Have done nothing to-day. Miss Wilson began it, and 
then the settling up of Mildred's money matters and Amy's 
marriage. ( Gets up. ) How the past haunts me ! Why 
can't I take the lot that comes and be content— the 
woman I love, money, success, everything I care for is 
mine, and yet wherever I go I see Mildred's face, hear 
Mildred's voice, Mildred's step. Yet Heaven knows I 
thought of her and reverenced her a hundred times 
more than most men do even the women they love best. 
Thank God she never knew or suspected ! It would 
have killed her. ( Pause, ) Perhaps a bit of work will do 
me good. ( Goes back to the writing-table, takes some 
legal-looking papers out of middle drawer and appears 



ACT IV THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 79 

to get interested in them.) Very odd point that. I 
don't know whether it will do to use — it might have been 
overwhelming generosity, or overwhelming despair. The 
two things are more closely allied than one imagines ; 
they are like the ends of a stick that will meet and make 
a circle if you bend them. 

Enter Servant. Bernard looks around. 

Servant. Please, sir, a young man has come, who 
says he wants to speak to you very particular. He came 
just before dinner, but I told him we had a party, so he 
said he would come back again. 

Bernard. A young man ! What does he want ? 

Servant. He told me to say that he'd come from 
Gibraltar. 

Bernard. Oh, it's Ben Stammer, of course. Ask 
him to come in. ( Gets up, turns to fireplace. To him- 
self when Servant has gone.) I wonder what Ben 
wants so particularly that he couldn't wait till morning. 

Servant shows in a young man, respectably dressed, of 
the artisan class. 

Bernard. Why, it's not Ben Stammer. {Cheerily.) 
Who are you, my good man? 

Young Man. William Kenny, sir. 

Bernard. Well, what is it? 

Kenny. It's difficult to explain, sir, or I wouldn't 
have intruded at this time of night, but I only came to 
London this afternoon. I am in the P. & O. Company's 
service at Gibraltar, sir, one of their extra engineers. 

Bernard {uneasily). Yes? 

Kenny. My wife was second stewardess on board 
the Rajah (Bernard is startled) when your lady was 



80 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act iv 

lost. It was a bad voyage for both of 'em, sir. My wife 
had always been delicate— that was why we thought it 
would be a good thing if she tried turning stewardess 
and what the sea would do for her. 

Bernard. Yes — yes 

Kenny. She was took ill that night, and they landed 
her next day so bad she hardly knew anything ; but when 
she was raving it was all about your lady ; and something 
about a letter 

Bernard. A letter! 

Kenny {putting his hand toward his pocket) » We 
didn't understand, and the next day she died. Her 
things was just put into her box and never touched, till I 
came back home yesterday. This morning mother was 
turning 'em over and in her dress pocket she found this 
{he pulls out a letter) directed to you. I was coming 
up and I thought I'd better call and explain how it was. 
When I come this evening, I heard you was married 
again, sir, and there was a party going on ; but I 
thought I'd better get it to you as soon as possible, 

(Bernard takes the letter, stands as if unable to 
speak. Kenny looks at him for a moment^ 
then turns a little bit away.) 

Bernard. A letter — a letter now ! 

Kenny. Perhaps the lady felt she wouldn't go 
ashore, and gave it to Jennie to post ; and Jennie put it 
in her pocket and — and that's how I think it was, sir. 

Bernard {overcome and staggered). Thank you. 
You must excuse me — it has taken me by — ^by surprise. 
Here, let me give you something. {Feels in his pocket.) 

Kenny. Oh, I didn't do it for that, sir. I thought 
perhaps 

Bernard. I know — I know . You have done me 

a great service 

{Puts the money into his hand. Nods toward 
the door as if unable to speak.) 



ACT IV THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 81 

Kenny. Thank you, sir. I am very sorry, I'm sure. 
{Exit Kenny. Bernard stands rigid till the 
man has left the room.) 
Bernard. The whole day she has been following 
me— bringing her message— whispering it in my ear. 
{Puts the letter down on writing-table^ sits down on writ- 
ing chair. A pause.) I must see what she says— at 
least there will be no more of that awful doubt that has 
put a drop of poison into every hour of happiness. 

( Takes up the letter.) 

Mary opens the door and says, joyfully. 

Mary. Berry ! I heard that someone was with you, 
and waited till he had gone. Who was it? 

(Bernard hurriedly hides the letter, puts his 
elbows on the table, leans his face in his 
hands with almost a groan, and says in a voice 
that he tries to m,ake calm..) 

Bernard. A man to see me on some business ; you 
had better go, dear ; I must do some work. 

Mary {coaxingly). Oh, but let us have our five 
minutes— here is my stool. {Picks up stool, brings it to 
his chair.) Turn round. {As he slowly turns, she sits 
down on the stool at his feet so that she does not see his 
face, takes his half reluctant hands , leans her face against 
them,, and gives a little sound of satisfaction.) Now, 
tell me, Berry dear, was it a nice party ? 

Bernard [forcing himself to speak, but doing so in a 
strained voice). A very nice party. 

Mary. Everything went well ? 

Bernard [nods his head and answers, still- in a 
strained voice). Perfectly. 

Mary. Did you think the table looked pretty ? I in- 
vented that way of doing the flowers. 



82 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT ACT iv 

Bernard {shuddering.) Did you, my darling? 

Mary {with a change in her voice). Are you cold? 
You shivered — and your voice is so grave 

Bernard. I felt as if the wind swept in 

Mary. You are tired {caressing his hands) — but you 
are glad to be with me again? You said it always 
rested you. 

Bernard {recovering himself with an' effort and 
stroking her hair half tenderly, half absently). It 
does. It always rests me, Mollie — it's good to be to- 
gether. 

Mary {lifts her head and kisses his hands). Yes — 
yes— oh, I do so love my dear home, and dear you, and 
I am so happy ! ( With a sigh . ) 

Bernard. We were very happy in the Hampstead 

days ( Gets up and says passionately. ) Great God ! 

They were my happiest days. 

Mary {gets up, too —surprised) . We are happier 
now. Berry 

Bernard. No, no ! 

Mary. Yes, yes ! We can walk together in the sight 
of other men and women, and not feel that at any mo- 
ment we may be made ashamed. 

Bernard. You told me a hundred times that you 
were not ashamed. 

{He seems to have a difficulty in listening to her — 
to be absorbed in something else.) 

Mary. And I wasn't, till one day my eyes were 
opened wide. {Pause. ) Berry, if those people to-night 
had only guessed. 

Bernard {bitterly). You women put a tremendous 
value on respectability in the eyes of the world. 

Mary {puts her arms on his shoulders). It isn't that ; 
you know it isn't. I only care for you and for the right. 
I care for that, Bernard, I do indeed— love and reverence 



ACT IV THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 83 

for it have grown and grown upon me. To do right, and 
to love well — it is the whole world. 

Bernard {desperately). It is the whole world, dear 
Mollie — a world that is and shall be yours. ( They cross 
stage and sit down on sofa to r. He recovers and grows 
tender.) Don't think of the past too much. I love you 
a thousand times more for all you did 

Mary {getting up quickly). But I wish we had 
waited. I didn't care once, but I do now. We called 
what we did by fine names, and I felt them all to be true 
then. But, Bernard, right and wrong have been built up 
and the great laws made, and there they are— put 
together by all the sufferings of men and women, and all 
the experience of the centuries ; and right is, and wrong 
is ; and no tinkering at them, no longing, or even love, 
will change them, and make one thing this and the other 
that. Mr. Saunderson said it to-night. Didn't you hear 
him? 

Bernard {nods and gets up). Would you do it all 
over again — the past ? 

Mary. Yes, every bit of it. Oh, you know I would. 

I love good deeds and great ones, and great love, 

darling, and great courage — even courage to do wrong 

for love's sake — love of you. I had courage for that, did I 

not? {He nods and sits down by the writing-table ; she 

kneels beside him and clasps her hands on his 

shoulder. A pause. He looks at her ; she 

slowly lets go her hands, speaks in a whisper, 

and her manner becomes troubled.) 

Mary. Bernard, I never dared say it before, but I 
wish she had died naturally— that she had not been 
drowned. 

Bernard {nods his head again and says sadly and half 
aside). I have wished it many a time. But why do you 
say it to-night ? 



84 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT ACT iv 

Mary. Only because Mrs. Carew's being here made 
me think — she was with her, you know. {Shudders. A 
pause.) In the twihght {in a half whisper) sometimes I 
can see Mildred's face looking up from a grey sea to a grey 
sky — a dead white face, and the ship going farther and 
farther away — and the long white line of foam it leaves. 

Bernard {shuddering). For God's sake, don't, 
Mary 

Mary {with a sigh). I am so thankful I never saw 
her. I couldn't bear to shape her face, her real face, 
in my thoughts. 

Bernard, Luckily she would never be photo- 
graphed ; there is only a faded portrait of her at seven- 
teen that no one could recognise. 

Mary {after a pause). Berry, they were talking of 
her to-night ; I am certain of it, for when I came near 
they tried to stop. Oh, if she had not been drowned ! 
And if I could be certain she never knew ; it is the only 
thing in the world that could part us — for it would divide 
us even now ! 

Bernard {impatiently). Mary, we must stop this 
talk. It is doing neither of us any good. 

Mary. Yes, we will stop it. {A pause, and then 
calmly.) But first, Berry dear, I want to tell you some- 
thing, — it is the only secret I ever had from you. It cost 
me so much at the time, but I promised not to tell you, 
and a sort of superstition has kept me silent. You 
remember that morning I was so strange — the morning 
of Willoughby & Cartwright ? 

Bernard {getting up and looking at her). Yes — I 
remember — well. 

Mary. That morning a woman came to see me — a 
strange woman. 

Bernard {starting). A woman ! What did she 
come for ? 



ACT IV THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 85 

Mary. She came — she made a pretense of coming 
about a charity. It was a woman who knew about us. 

Bernard. About us ? What was her name ? 

Mary. I don't know. 

Bernard. What did she look Hke ? How old was 
she? 

Mary. She was eight-and-twenty or thirty perhaps. 
{Reflecting.) She was pale, and slight and delicate-look- 
ing — stay, give me a pencil. {Sits down to the writing- 
table impulsively. ) Here is one, and this white blotting 
paper will do. {She makes so^ne rapid strokes with a 
pencil, while he stands looking over her shoulder. ) She 
stood facing me all the time — she wore a long black 
cloak ; it had fur around the collar. 

Bernard {alarmed) . Mary ! 

Mary {goes on drawing). Her face was very grave 
and eager — it had deep lines, so; and her hair 

Bernard {starts back in horror). Great heavens, it is 
Mildred. 

Mary. Mildred ! ( Gets up and stands petrified. ) 

Bernard. Yes ; it is Mildred. 

{Staggers away from, her.) 

Mary. Then she knew, and it is all made plain. 

Bernard. What did she know? What do you 
mean? 

Mary. She came to me — she had found out the 
address — I told her everything. I boasted of your love, 
and goaded her on to do what she did, not knowing to 
whom I spoke. I said that to creep away and die was 
all that was left her if she knew ! 

Bernard {with a groan). My God ! 

{A pause. Bernard with his head turned from 
her; Mary creeps up to him and in a broken 
voice that is almost a whisper.) 

Mary {wringing her hands in despair). It parts us — 
it parts us forever. 



86 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act iv 

Bernard. No — no. It has been all my doing — not 
yours, and even this shall not part us. 

Mary. Are vows and promises nothing ? 

Bernard. There can never be happiness again ; but 
as for parting, that would be madness. Besides, we 
faced the possible penalty of what we did all along. 

Mary {shuddering). We didn't face — this— Can 
you love the woman who drove her to her death ? 

{A pause.) 

Bernard. We don't know that it did. 

Mary. It killed her. There was nothing else. 

Bernard. We don't know that it did, even nov/. 
{A pause.) Mary, the man who came just now brought 
me a letter from her. By an accident it has been kept 
back all this time. 

Mary. A letter ? Where is it ? 

Bernard. It is here. {Going to his table.) I did 
hot mean you to know, and hid it as you came in. 

Mary. Would you have a secret from me, too? 

{She says it bitterly^ as if a revulsion of feeling 
were beginning to steal over her. ) 

Bernard. I wanted to spare you 

Mary. Read it. Open it. Oh, Bernard, open it ! 

Bernard. Now? {Hesitates.) 

Mary. Yes, yes, now. Let us know the worst. 

(Bernard ^o^.F to the table.) 

Bernard {hesitating). I feel as if holiness had touched 
it. I am not fit even to take her letter in my hand. 
( Takes it up reverently^ advances a step forward. Mary 
goes toward him, her hands clasped as if to listen. He 
sees and waves her back and says. ) I must read it alone. 
Go— go. {Shuddering , as if the sight of her dismayed 
him.) 

(Mary retreats. Bernard turns away from her; 
with an effort opens the letter and reads, as if 



ACT IV THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 87 

he can hardly bring out the words. As he 
begins Mary, listening, falls on her knees and 
gradually crouches lower. ) 

Bernard {reading). "We shall be at Gibraltar to- 
morrow. The stewardess will post this, but I am not 
going on shore. I cannot bear life any longer. God, 
who knows everything, will understand and forgive me. 
{^'E.^^PiSSi pauses as if unable to go on.) "I am ill and 
miserable ; there is no future to hope for, there is no 
past to remember. It is not your fault, Bernard ; you 
were very good to me. You thought me what I seemed, 
a dull woman, who loved you in an even, passionless 
manner, as so many women love their husbands " 

Mary {in a whisper). They are my words to her — 
wy words {Crouching lower.) 

Bernard {goes on). " I have lived outside your life, 
and yet I want you to know that all the time I would 
have given you my heart to tread under your feet. 
I did, I do, and — I love you, — though I give you 
up, to the world, to others, and go from you, because 
I cannot bear life, because I am what I cannot help 
being. I want you to be happy. I want it more than 
anything in the world. Good-bye. I am going to the 
seat at the end of the ship. I shall hold out my hands — 
they will be a little nearer — to say good-bye once more. 
Mildred." 

( When he has finished reading, he turns back to the 
table and puts it down again, sees Mary and 
quails a little. She looks at him, shuddering 
with fear.) 

Mary. They were my words. I drove her to her 
death ; I told her she was a woman outside your life 

Bernard {struggling with despair). Yet there is for- 
giveness, even in that letter. 

Mary. It is the letter of a broken heart. The 



88 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act iv 

woman we killed may forgive, but the law exacts its 
sentence. We are apart already — it is all over. 

Bernard. This is madness. 

( Goes forward. She stretches out her hand with 
a gesture of horror.) 

Mary. Keep back ! The glamour is gone, and I 
see you now as you will see me — weak and selfish and 
cruel. We disguised what we did and called it pas- 
sion ; we thought ourselves strong and great ; we liked 
oursevles for the very crime we were committing. 

Bernard. Mary ! Tfie shock has turned your brain. 
You will be better in a day or two, when you can 
balance things better. Great heaven ! But neither your 
calmness nor my agony will undo the past. 

Mary. Nothing ^ nothing will do that. 

Bernard {recovering'). But neither will it undo 
your love for me, nor mine for you 

Mary. My love for you ! I feel as if it had gone 
— as if in this hour it had died — as if hatred would 
take jts place. 

Bernard {^distracted, indignantly). Mary! Don't 
be cruel — think of all we have done — for love of each 
other. 

Mary {bitterly). Love ! If it had been worth call- 
ing love, it would have given you courage to live your 
life with the woman you took of your own free will, 
and me to bear the penalty of doubting you in the 
first days of all. ( With a little break in her voice. ) I 
should have helped you to be strong. That would 
have been love, not this, which forever parts us. 

Bernard. It shall 7iot part us. 

Mary {recoiliftg). Would you stay with a woman 
who shrinks from you already — it makes me shudder i 
if you take but a single step towards me? There is ■ 
only parting left for us. i 



ACT IV THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 89 

Bernard. This is folly and madness ! What good 
will parting do now ? 

{She stands silent for a minute as if struggli7ig 
with herself.) 

Mary. It will be expiation. 

Bernard. There is no good in expiation. 

Mary. No good in expiation ! {In a tone of awe. ) 
To say that is to doubt the story of the world's re- 
demption. 

Bernard. Oh, you are mad! This is as bad for 
me as for you. It is worse, for it is all my doing. 
But how could we part? Are the children to suffer? 
Are we to tell the story to the whole world, and so 
proclaim our shame and theirs ? Do you want to leave 
me and them, and your home in which your duties lie, 
to brood in the luxury of atonement? This is the idea 
of a selfish, hysterical woman, not of the woman I 
have loved. As for the oath you took, you were too 
much excited to be responsible. 

Mary. If that vow is not to count, then none in 
this world is binding, for I swore by the lives most 
dear to us both, by everything I held most sacred. 
You broke your solemn vow to her. Do you think— 
oh, my God !— do you think I will break mine ? 

Bernard. Mary! I cannot bear this. It is too 
much. You —you taunt me with breaking my vow to 
her — when it was done for love of you ? 

Mary [with a ghastly laugh). It is coming ; your 
hatred, your shrinking, your horror. ( With a sudden 
calmness.) But you are right, Bernard. We cannot 
even give ourselves the luxury of expiation. Our pun- 
ishment is to stay together, even though love is gone 
and happiness is finished. It is the most awful parting 
of all. This is our day of judgment — she said it would 
come— and this is our sentence. 



90 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT act iv 

Bernard {as if forcing himself to say what he does 
not believe). Happiness is finished? — but love is not 
over. 

Mary. I should never dare to love you again, even 
if it were possible. I should be afraid. . I am afraid 
now, Bernard. {In a whisper.) Afraid of a face thinly 
veiled by the water that passes over and over it — it 
is the face of the woman we killed. {Looks down in 
terror as if at the water.) It is there — there — I can 
see it, and the darkness gathering above it. 

Bernard {desperately, as if struggling to go for- 
ward, and yet unable to do so). Mollie 

Mary {putting out her hands again with a gesture 
of despair). Keep back ! Keep back ! Between us 
flows the sea. 

{He half staggers. They stand looking at each 
other aghast.) 



Curtain. 



ITHE LIKENESS OF THE 
NIGHT 



A MODERN PLAY 

IN FOUR ACTS 



MRS. W. K. CLIFFORD 



"And where the red was, lo the bloodless white. 
And where truth was, the likeness of a liar. 
And where day was, the likeness of the night ; 
This is the end of every man's desire.'^ 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 
1900 

All rights reserved 



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